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U,pyr4Fk\ 


^^  /^^4«i^: 


Modern  Artists 


By 


Christian  Brinton 


IP 


New  York 
THE   BAKER   &   TAYLOR   COMPANY 

1908 


I 


/VD3 


5 


CJOPYEIGHT,    1908,    BY 

THE  BAKEE  &  TAYLOE  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


THE  TEOW  PBES8,   NEW  YOKK 


APROPOS 


'WJf  T'EILE  the  thrill  of  the  modern  spirit  hoth  in  art  and 
W  in  life  should  obviously  he  the  dominant  note  of 
the  following  pages,  no  conscious  sacrifices  have  been  made 
in  behalf  of  any  given  theory  or  thesis.  The  aim  has  not 
been  laboriously  to  trace  the  origin  and  development  of 
certain  more  or  less  formative  influences,  but  to  reflect  such 
tendencies  in  terms  frankly  specific  and  personal.  Although, 
during  the  period  covered,  which  embraces  something  over  a 
century  of  production,  the  profile  of  art  in  general  has  yearly 
become  more  and  more  distinct,  that  which  here  takes  prece- 
dence is  the  persuasive  magic  of  the  artist  himself.  In  order 
the  better  to  picture  those  contagious  forces  which  are  to-day 
vitalizing  art  in  all  lands  the  selection  has  purposely  been 
broad  and  eclectic  rather  than  narrow  or  local.  A  number  of 
characteristic  figures — not  always  the  conventionally  greatest 
or  best  known — have  thus  been  chosen  from  various  countries, 
and  the  attempt  has  been  made  to  give  a  sense  of  the  individu- 
ality of  each  man  treated,  and  through  the  individuM  a  feeling 
for  the  conditions  and  surroundings,  aesthetic  and  social,  of  his 
actual  or  adopted  home.  The  personal  element  and  the  ele- 
ment of  nationality  will  hence  inevitably  prove  the  constant 
factors  in  this  series  of  interpretations.  The  former  quality 
has  long  since  won  its  title  to  consideration.  It  is  as  yet,  how- 
ever, only  vaguely  realized  that  the  latter  is  one  of  the  artist's 
richest  possessions.    There  are  few  more  amiable  fallacies  than 

[v] 


271439 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

the  pretension  that  art  should  strive  to  he  international  and 
cosmopolitan,  for  in  point  of  fact  the  men  who  have  best  suc^ 
ceeded  in  becoming  so  are  those  whose  performances  have  most 
emphatically  home  the  particular  stamp  of  time  and  place. 
Elusive  though  unmistakable,  sensitive  though  innately  un- 
changeable, nationality  is  an  element  which  should  never,  and 
indeed  can  never,  he  entirely  overlooked.  Every  artist  is  in 
essence  a  nationalist.  By  freely  expressing  himself  he  cannot 
fail  to  suggest  that  larger  heritage  of  which  he  shares  but  a 
slender  portion.  Though  conforming  to  these  general  outlines, 
the  present  volume  is  not  meant  to  he  either  speculative  or 
sternly  critical.  It  is  frankly  sympathetic  and  appreciative, 
and,  in  as  far  as  possible,  each  man  in  turn  has  been  permitted 
to  plead  his  own  cause  through  the  facts  of  his  life  and  the 
works  of  eye  and  hand.  While  it  is  true  that  the  varied  mani- 
festations of  nineteenth-century  art  may  here  he  followed  from 
chapter  to  chapter  with  sufficient  accuracy,  the  individual  him- 
self will,  it  is  hoped,  always  he  found  to  stand  the  more  firmly 
and  humanly  in  the  foreground  of  these  sketches.  Grateful 
acknowledgments  are  due  the  artists  themselves  whose  efforts 
and  achievements  have  been  a  continuous  source  of  inspiration 
in  the  preparation  of  the  ensuing  pages,  to  owners  whose  paint- 
ings are  herewith  reproduced,  and  to  those  editors  who  have 
already  welcomed  certain  sections  of  the  material  in  its  early 
and  fugitive  form. 


[vi] 


CONTENTS 


PAGK 


Jean-Honore  Fragonard 3 

(Born  Grasse,  France,  5  April  1732;  died  Paris,  22  Au- 
gust 1806) 

Antoine  Wiertz 25 

(Born  Dinant,  Belgium,  22  February  1806;  died  Brussels, 
18  June  1865) 

George  Frederick  Watts 43 

(Bom  London,  23  February  1817;  died  London,  1  July 
1904) 

Arnold  Bocklin 61 

(Born  Basle,  Switzerland,  16  October  1827;  died  Fiesole, 
near  Florence,  16  January  1901) 

CONSTANTIN   MeUNIER 81 

(Born  Etterbeek,  Brussels,  12  April  1831;  died  Brussels, 
4  April  1905) 

James  McNeill  Whistler 99 

(Bom  Lowell,  Massachusetts,  10  July  1834;  died  London, 
17  July  1903) 

[Vii] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

N  PAGE 

Franz  von  Lenbach 117 

(Born  Schrobenhausen,  Upper  Bavaria,  13  December  1836; 
died  Munich,  6  May  1904) 

Ilya  Efimovitch  Repin 135 

(Born  Chuguyev,  Government  of  Kharkov,  Russia,  24  July 
1844;  resides  St.  Petersburg) 

John  S.  Sargent     * 155 

(Born  Florence,  12  January  1856;  resides  London) 

John  Lavery 173 

(Born  Belfast,  Ireland,  1857;  resides  London) 

Giovanni  Segantini 191 

(Born  Arco,  Austrian  Tyrol,  15  January  1858;  died  near 
Pontresina,  Upper  Engadine,  Switzerland,  29  Sep- 
tember 1899) 

Gari  Melchers 211 

(Born  Detroit,  Michigan,  11  August  I860;  resides  Egmond- 
aan-den-Hoef,  Holland,  Paris,  and  New  York) 

J.  J.  Shannon. 229 

(Born  Auburn,  New  York,  3  February  1862;  resides 
London) 

Ignacio  Zuloaga 245 

(Born  Eibar,  Province  of  Vizcaya,  Spain,  26  July  1870; 
resides  Eibar  and  Paris) 

[  viii  ] 


il 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

(Plates  in  Colour) 
James  McNeill  Whistler 

Arrangement    in    Black    and    Brown— Portrait    of    Miss    Rosa 

Corder Frontispiece  '^xj^  h 

Franz  von  Lenbach 

FACING   PAGE 

Prince  Bismarck 124 

Gari  Melchers 

Brabangonne  218  '■'-^ 

J.  J.  Shannon 

Miss  Kitty 236 


(Plates  in  Half-tone,  with  Tint) 

FACING  PAGE 

Jean-Honore  Fragonard 

Portrait  of  the  artist  painted  by  himself 3 

La  Poursuite g 

Le  Rendez-vous H 

La  Lettre  d'Amour 14 

L'Amant  Couronne 13 

[ix] 

/ 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

yACINQ  PAGE 

Antoine  Wiertz 

Portrait  of  the  artist  painted  by  himself 25 

The  Greeks  and  Trojans  Contending  for  the  Body  of  Patroclus  29 

The  Revolt  of  Hell  against  Heaven 32 

A  Scene  in  Hell 37 

George  Frederick  Watts 

Portrait  of  the  artist  painted  by  himself  .       .       .       .       .       .43 

Orpheus  and  Eurydice 46 

Algernon  Charles   Swinburne 50 

Love  and  Life 56 

Arnold  Bocklin 

Portrait  of  the  artist  painted  by  himself 61 

Sleeping   Diana 65 

The  Island  of  Death 69 

The  Fields  of  the  Blessed 73 

CONSTANTIN  MeUNIER 

Portrait  of  the  artist  by  Max  Liebermann 81 

Antwerp  Dock-Hand 82 

Watering  a  Colliery  Horse 86 

The  Quarryman 88 

The  Mine 93 

James  McNeill  Whistler 

Portrait  of  the  artist  by  Fantin-Latour 99 

Harmony  in  Green  and  Rose — The  Music  Room     ....  102 

Harmony  in  Grey  and  Green — Cicely  Henrietta,  Miss  Alexander  106 
The  Lady  with  the  Yellow  Buskin — Portrait  of  Lady  Archibald 

Campbell HI 

[X] 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PAGE 

Franz  von  Lenbach 

Father  and  Child 117 

General  Field-Marshal  Count  von  Moltke 120 

Theodor  Mommsen 129 

Ilya  Efimovitch  Repin 

Portrait  of  the  artist  from  a  recent  photograph       ....  135 

Eeligions  Procession  in  the  Government  of  Kursk  ....  139 

The  Cossacks'  Reply  to  the  Sultan  Mohammed  IV       .       .       .  143 

Village  Dancers,  Little  Russia 147 

John  S.  Sargent 

Portrait  of  the  artist  painted  by  himself 155 

Mme.   Gautreau 158 

Egyptian  Woman  with  Coin  Necklace 162 

Lord  Ribblesdale 167 

John  Lavert 

Father  and  Daughter 173 

Mary  in  Green 176 

Polymnia 180 

The  Sisters 184 

Giovanni  Segantini 

Portrait  of  the  artist  painted  by  himself 191 

Ave  Maria  a  Trasbordo 194 

Ploughing  in  the  Engadine 199 

The  Unnatural  Mothers 203 

[xi] 


MODEEN    ARTISTS 

FACING  PAGE 

Gaei  Melchers 

Portrait  of  the  artist  by  J.  J.  Shannon  .       .       .       .       .       .  211 

The  Man  with  the  Cloak 214 

Mother  and  Child 222 

J.  J.  Shannon 

Portrait  of  the  artist  painted  by  himself 229 

Lady  Marjorie  Manners 232 

The  Flower   Girl 240 

Ignacio  Zuloaga 

Portrait  of  the  artist  by  Jacques-Emile  Blanche     ....  245 

Daniel  Zuloaga  and  his  Daughters 248 

Lola,  the  Gitana 250 

Promenade  after  the  Bull-Fight 255 

The  Picador,  El  Coriano 256 


[xii] 


JEAN-HONOR]^  FRAGONARD 


JEAN-HONORE    FRAGONARD 

Portrait  of  the  artist  painted  by  himself 
[The  Louvre,  Paris] 


JEAN-HOWORE  FRAGONAED 


NOWHEEE  and  in  no  age  has  art  reflected  life  with  more 
intimate  fidelity  than  in  Erance  during  the  eighteenth 
centur}^  The  accord  between  that  which  was  and  its 
transcription  in  pigment  or  marble,  in  coloured  chalk  or  terra- 
cotta, here  revealed  a  perfection  seldom  attained  before  or  since. 
With  unfailing  spirit  and  accuracy  the  painters,  sculptors,  and 
architects  of  the  Reign  of  Rococo  gave  to  all  they  touched  the 
precise  physiognomy  of  the  period.  They  were  incomparably 
true  to  existing  conditions,  to  that  rose-tinted  convention  which 
was  not  to  be  crushed  until  the  red  dawn  of  the  Revolution. 
Although  it  seems  to  stand  apart,  to  display  an  abandon  quite 
its  own,  French  art  of  the  eighteenth  century  recalls  on  one  side 
the  inflated  eloquence  of  the  Grand  Siecle,  and  foreshadows,  in 
a  measure,  all  that  came  after.  Scattered  here  and  there 
throughout  the  span  of  Louis  XIV  are  various  gestures  in 
bronze  or  plaster  which  presage  the  coming  of  Watteau,  Pater, 
Lancret,  and  their  followers.  Certain  of  Coysevox's  nymphs, 
Girar don's  fountains,  and  chance  wreaths,  garlands,  and  cupids 
on  palace  wall  or  ceiling,  hint  that,  smothered  beneath  this 
solemn  pretence,  lurked  a  gleam  of  joy  and  beauty  which  might 
some  day  relieve  the  august  pomp  of  Le  Brun's  ^  Histoire  du 
Grand  Monarque  '  and  the  stateliness  of  Le  Notre  *s  parks  and 
gardens.  If  under  de  Maintenon  all  was  rigid  and  constrained, 
official  and  perfunctory,  with  la  Pompadour  came  a  welcome 
freedom  from  control.    Society  had  been  too  long  on  parade. 

[3] 


'■"''''•    ''"•''"■'"       MODERN    ARTISTS 

Unnatural  restraint  gave  way  to  licence  frankly  human,  and 
austere  splendour  was  replaced  by  the  magic  of  personal  en- 
chantment. As  in  life,  so  in  art,  there  were  no  traces  of  pain  or 
sorrow.  A  feverish  reversion  to  pleasure  was  the  only  note 
sounded.  Skies  were  perpetually  blue,  gallants  languished  about 
strumming  guitars,  and  the  greensward  was  dotted  with  shep- 
herds and  shepherdesses  beribboned  and  operatic.  Existence 
became  a  pastoral  now  French,  now  Italian,  now  Spanish,  and 
the  world  gaily  embarked  in  flower-decked  galleys  for  Cythera, 
unmindful  of  hoarse  mutterings  which  were  soon  to  sweep  aside 
this  fleeting  moment  of  nonchalance.  In  essence  the  entire 
movement  was  a  return  to  paganism,  not  the  broad  paganism 
of  earlier  days,  but  an  ethereal  paganism  recording  all  the  in- 
consequence of  its  hour.  For  the  time  being  standards  were 
strangely  confused.  Religion  as  well  as  reality  was  obscured. 
The  crucifix  and  the  crown  of  thorns  were  forgotten.  Those 
bambini  who  tempered  the  zealous  exaltation  of  numerous  Um- 
brian  and  Flemish  canvases,  who  with  Raphael  or  van  Dyck 
added  such  spontaneous  charm,  became  mischievous  amorini 
bent  on  missions  dubious  and  diverting.  Venus  slipped  into  the 
niche  so  long  sacred  to  Mary  of  Nazareth  and  Psyche  shone 
cream- white  amid  the  green  of  Versailles  leafage. 

The  chosen  poet  of  all  this  radiant  subversion,  the  one  who 
best  caught  its  particular  accent,  was  not  Watteau,  so  tinged 
with  pensiveness,  nor  Boucher,  who  possessed  every  gift  save 
the  gift  of  truth,  but  Jean-Honore  Fragonard.  It  was  he  whose 
purpose  was  clearest,  he  who  reduced  desire  to  its  most  infec- 
tious terms,  he  who  joyously  revived  so  many  lost  kisses  and 
neglected  caresses.  Throughout  his  life  Fragonard  played  and 
perpetuated  the  Comedy  of  Love.  Femininity,  perverse  and  en- 
dearing, he  glorified  in  countless  miniatures,  portraits,  fans,  and 
decorative  panels.  Though  he  came  last  among  the  painters 
of  Elysium,  he  imprisoned  a  beauty  which  had  escaped  all, 

[4] 


JEAN-HONORE    FRAGONARD 

which  had  even  eluded  Antiquity  and  the  Renaissance.  This 
Cherubino  of  art  had  no  avowed  message  for  mankind,  no  defi- 
nite lesson  to  instil.  He  seemed  content  to  follow  prevailing 
modes.  He  wished  only  to  delight  and  amuse,  sometimes  with 
fancies  that  recall  not  alone  Ariosto  and  Boccaccio  but  the  mel- 
lower wantonness  of  Propertius  and  Alciphron.  And  yet  in 
the  whole  range  of  his  production  there  is  never  the  slightest 
note  of  insistence.  It  is  an  art  which  persuades,  never  repulses. 
Each  of  these  little  goddesses  of  pleasure  can  say,  with  Mozart's 
Zerlina,  *^  Je  consens,  et  je  refuse. '^  While  having  its  origin 
in  the  desire  to  please  and  to  attract,  this  art  is  nevertheless  con- 
siderably more  than  a  propitiation,  a  mere  courting  of  favour 
whether  of  the  public  at  large  or  of  some  wealthy  patron.  In 
addition  to  being  typical  of  his  epoch  Jean-Honore  Fragonard 
also  ranks  as  a  distinct  precursor,  as  an  unconscious,  though 
unquestionable  initiator.  Long  decried  and  ignored,  he  stands 
to-day  among  the  most  significant  and  original  of  eighteenth- 
century  painters.  In  one  phase  or  another  of  his  work  he  antici- 
pates most  of  those  truths  of  vision  and  treatment  from  which 
has  sprung  the  vitality  of  the  modem  school.  Beneath  his 
astounding  facility  is  a  science  which  few  have  taken  pains  to 
discover.  Nor  is  he  always  merely  gay  and  volatile,  for  in  the 
midst  of  his  playfulness  there  sometimes  escapes  a  cry  of  pas- 
sionate tenderness  or  foreboding.  Though  he  made  no  preten- 
sions, and  professed  no  theories,  few  artists  the  world  over  have 
surpassed  in  felicity,  animation,  and  imperishable  charm  this 
light-hearted  son  of  la  Provence. 

Born  at  Grasse,  5  April  1732,  in  a  little  house  in  the  rue  de 
la  Porte-Neuve  near  the  place  aux  Herbes,  the  boy  spent  the 
first  fifteen  years  of  his  life  at  home.  Famed  for  its  flowers  and 
its  perfumes,  encircled  by  a  silver-green  fringe  of  olive  trees, 
with,  beyond,  the  sparkling  rim  of  the  sea,  Grasse  could  scarcely 
fail  to  influence  the  lad's  early  impressions.   Always,  in  his  can- 

[5] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

vases,  sway  and  nod  the  trees  and  blossoms  of  Ms  native  land 
bathed  in  a  violet  mist  blown  from  across  the  plain  of  Cannes. 
To  the  very  last  the  background  of  his  art  retained  those  same 
dark  masses  of  foliage,  those  bright  flashes  of  colour,  and  the 
now  gleaming,  now  vaporous  skies  of  his  birthplace.  The  son 
of  a  modest  glovemaker,  who  was  in  turn  descended  from  the 
Fragonardo,  or  Fragonardi,  of  near  Milan,  Jean-Honore  found 
himself,  at  sixteen,  articled  to  a  notary  in  Paris,  whither  the 
family  had  gone  in  order  to  better  their  fortunes,  Fragonard 
pere  having  meanwhile  failed  owing  to  certain  unlucky  invest- 
ments. Local  tradition,  with  its  infallible  instinct  for  the  pic- 
turesque and  appropriate,  avers  that  the  youth  made  the  trip 
all  the  way  from  Grasse  afoot  in  company  with  Claude  Gerard, 
one  of  whose  daughters  he  was  later  to  marry.  He  already 
wished  to  become  a  painter,  an  ambition  which  the  good  notary 
of  the  Chatelet  heartily  approved,  so  at  the  end  of  a  few  doleful 
weeks  his  mother  took  him  to  Boucher,  then  at  the  pinnacle  of 
his  fame.  Too  busy  to  instruct  beginners,  the  facile  '^  Peintre 
des  Graces  et  des  Amours  ^'  sent  the  boy  to  his  friend,  Chardin, 
then  labouring  with  patient,  searching  conviction  amid  humble 
surroundings  in  the  rue  Princesse.  It  was  inevitable  that  the 
sprightly,  irrepressible  little  Meridional  should  have  made  scant 
progress  under  the  sober  painter  of  the  bourgeoisie.  Just  as 
when  with  the  notary,  he  spent  most  of  the  time  wandering, 
wide-eyed  and  enthusiastic,  about  the  teeming  streets.  He  also 
visited  the  dim,  solemn  churches  of  the  capital  where  hung  so 
many  rich  toned  canvases,  and  these  he  would  eagerly  copy  from 
memory  on  returning  home.  Convinced,  after  some  six  months, 
that  he  could  learn  little  from  Chardin,  the  youthful  aspirant 
went  again  to  Boucher,  this  time  bearing  an  armful  of  draw- 
ings. His  reception  proved  different,  for  Boucher,  recognizing 
his  talent,  welcomed  him  at  once,  and  before  long  he  was  assist- 
ing with  various  decorative  compositions  or  making  replicas  of 

[6] 


LA    POURSUITE 

By  Jean-Honore  Fragonard 

[Courtesy  of  J.  Pierpont  Morgan,  Esq.l 


JEAN-HONORE    FRAGONARD 

his  fecund  master's  pictures.  Alert  and  voluble,  Fragonard 
instinctively  felt  at  home  in  the  big  studio  in  the  Bibliotheque 
du  Roi  which  was  thronged  at  all  hours  by  pupils,  models,  and 
men  and  women  of  fashion,  and  where  he  must  have  seen  "  la 
belle  Murphy  "  somewhat  oftener  than  he  did  the  seductive  and 
easily  consoled  Mme.  Boucher.  The  painter  whose  false  and 
captivating  Dianas  and  Auroras  fluttered  on  every  wall  or 
plafond  proved  a  stimulating  preceptor.  He  was  the  incarna- 
tion of  the  Rococo  spirit  in  all  its  supple  elegance,  and  this  spirit 
Fragonard  was  quick  to  absorb.  So  rapid  was  the  newcomer's 
progress  that  in  1752,  though  not  a  student  of  the  Academic,  he 
competed  for  and  won  the  Grand  Prix,  his  nearest  rival  being 
Saint- Aubin,  whose  chagrin  was  such  that  he  thenceforth  re- 
nounced painting  for  engraving.  From  the  free  activity  of 
Boucher's  studio  Fragonard  next  passed  to  the  Ecole  Royale 
des  Eleves  proteges  and  the  more  restrained  guidance  of  Carle 
Van  Loo,  where  he  awaited  his  turn  to  proceed  to  Rome  a  full- 
fledged  pensioner  of  the  king. 

The  years  in  Rome,  five  in  all,  which  were  passed  at  the 
Palazzo  Mancini  under  the  not  always  approving  eye  of  Natoire, 
or  in  the  enlightening  company  of  the  abbe  de  Saint-Non,  less 
abbe  than  distinguished  amateur  of  the  arts,  held  unmeasured 
richness  for  Fragonard.  At  first  overwhelmed  by  Michelangelo 
and  Raphael,  he  soon  found  his  level  among  such  masters  as 
Barocci,  Pietro  da  Cortona,  Solimena,  and  Tiepolo.  These  he 
copied  assiduously,  readily  catching  the  soft  glow  of  purple 
light,  or  the  sheen  of  satin  robe  held  in  place  by  jewelled  hand. 
While  Natoire  and  the  Academic  did  much  for  him,  Saint-Non 
did  more,  and  it  was  during  those  lingering  summer  months 
spent  at  the  Villa  d'Este  in  company  with  the  abbe  that  Frago- 
nard first  responded  to  the  silent  throb  of  the  antique  world  and 
the  palpitating  atmospheric  beauty  about  him.  From  time  to 
time  they  were  joined  by  Hubert  Robert,  who  was  also  at  the 

[7] 


MODEEN    ARTISTS 

Academie,  the  three  thus  cementing  an  enduring  friendship. 
While  most  of  Eragonard's  studies  after  the  older  painters 
show  accuracy  and  vitality,  none  can  compare  in  interest  to  his 
^  L'Allee  ombreuse/  with  its  great  vault  of  foliage  meeting  over- 
head, or  his  *  Vue  prise  a  la  Villa  d'Este.'  Here  was  the  real 
Fragonard,  sensitive,  submissive,  and  displaying  a  sjrmpathy 
with  Roman  life  and  scene  which  must  be  partially  accounted 
for  by  his  Italian  ancestry  and  that  unmistakable  affinity 
which  exists  between  the  Campagna  and  the  country  about 
Grasse.  From  the  very  first  he  appears  to  have  seen  nature 
and  natural  forms  not  boldly  and  sharply,  but  enveloped  in 
a  caressing  ambience — blue,  blond,  or  golden.  Seated  before 
his  easel  in  one  of  those  majestic  oak  or  cypress  lined  avenues, 
with  here  a  vine-covered  wall,  and  there  a  flower-grown  foun- 
tain, the  receptive,  observant  youth  did  not  fail  to  note  that 
vibrant  play  of  diffused  light  and  shade  which  is  one  of  art's 
most  precious  discoveries.  He  never  knew  that  what  he  was 
striving  for  would  one  day  be  called  impressionism.  He  only 
saw  and  suggested  certain  effects  as  best  he  could,  yet  it  was  a 
full  century  before  his  efforts  were  to  be  surpassed. 

On  his  return  to  Paris  full  of  high  enthusiasm,  Fragonard, 
after  a  period  of  indecision,  made  a  commanding  debut  at  the 
Salon  of  1765  with  *  Coresus  se  sacrifie  pour  sauver  Callirhoe.' 
The  amateurs  applauded,  Diderot  praised  him,  and  the  king 
ordered  the  picture  to  be  reproduced  in  Gobelins  tapestry.  His 
triimaph  was  largely  theatric,  for  his  theme  had  been  taken  from 
the  poem  by  Roy  with  music  by  Destouches.  While  it  was  not 
Gluck,  it  pleased  the  fancy  of  the  public,  and  a  dignified 
academic  career  seemed  to  await  the  young  Provengal.  Yet  he 
somehow  never  duplicated  the  dramatic  fervour  of  this  com- 
position, the  passionate  reds  of  these  flowing  robes  or  the  be- 
seeching whites  of  these  breasts  and  arms.  Although  purchased 
for  the  State,  it  was  several  years  before  Marigny  paid  him  for 

[8] 


JEAN-HONORE    FRAGONARD 

the  work,  and  meanwhile  the  one-time  pupil  of  Boucher  was 
fated  to  conquer  Cythera,  not  Oljnupus.  Through  the  kind 
offices  of  Doyen,  who  was  himself  too  prudish  to  accept  the  com- 
mission, Fragonard  was  enabled  to  paint  for  the  baron  de  Saint- 
Julien  *  Les  Hasards  heureux  de  I'Escarpolette,'  his  first  indis- 
putable masterpiece  of  grace  and  frivolity.  There  was  no 
further  hesitation.  He  had  found  his  chosen  vocation.  The 
baron  was  enchanted,  and  the  picture  was  engraved  by  de 
Launay,  quickly  becoming  the  success  of  the  hour.  Before  he 
knew  it  Frago's  fortime  was  made.  Wealthy  fermiers  generaux 
such  as  Beau j  on,  Bergeret  de  Grancourt,  Rostin  d'lvry,  and 
Randon  de  Boisset  showered  him  with  orders.  Every  one,  in- 
cluding king  and  court  favourite,  wished  something  from  the 
not  over  scrupulous  brush  which  knew  so  well  how  to  flatter  the 
taste  and  stimulate  the  appetites  of  a  society  whose  character- 
istic frailty  was  what  Voltaire  termed  love  weakness.  Within 
a  few  busy  years  the  young  painter  who  had  so  anxiously  awaited 
payment  for  his  Academie  picture  was  enjoying  an  annual  in- 
come of  forty  thousand  pounds. 

Meanwhile  it  mattered  little  that  Diderot  should  massacre 
the  charmingly  aerial  ceiling  he  had  sketched  for  Bergeret,  or 
that  Bachaumont  should  savagely  accuse  him  of  desiring  to 
shine  only  "  dans  les  boudoirs  et  les  garde-robes.''  After  the 
Salon  of  1767  he  ceased  to  exhibit,  and  grand,  imposing  com- 
positions were  renounced  for  countless  exquisite  revelations  of 
nudity,  often  venturesome,  always  inviting.  Though  henceforth 
he  painted  mainly  to  please  himself  and  his  opulent  patrons  the 
marvel  of  it  is  that  the  quality  of  his  work  seldom  suffered.  In- 
credibly prolific,  he  displayed  an  ease  and  fertility  almost  with- 
out parallel.  His  art  became  a  perfect  mirror  of  contemporary 
caprice  both  sensuous  and  sentimental.  Just  as  the  baron  de 
Saint- Julien  had  inspired  '  Les  Hasards  heureux  de  I'Escarpo- 
lette,'  so  the  marquis  de  Veri  gave  him  the  suggestion  for  *  Le 

[9] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

Verrou.'  To  Varanchan  de  Saint-Genies  went  *  Les  Baigneuses,' 
and  to  the  rich  notary,  Duclos  -  Dufresnoy,  *  La  Fontaine 
d 'Amour.'  In  rapid  succession  came  *  Le  Serment  d 'Amour,' 
*  Le  Sacrifice  de  la  Rose,'  *  Le  Debut  du  Modele,'  and  innumer- 
able *  Billet-doux  '  and  *  Baisers  '  all  executed  in  a  spirit  of 
vivacious  frankness  and  responsive  sensibility.  He  proved  him- 
self amazingly  varied,  this  eager  little  amoroso  of  the  brush. 
The  subdued  dignity  of  '  Le  Contrat '  was  offset  by  the  less  cir- 
cumspect insinuation  of  '  La  Gimblette  '  or  *  La  Chemise  en- 
levee.'  Moreover,  he  kept  his  impressions  fresh  by  constant 
contact  with  the  world  about  him.  He  was  no  frigid  onlooker. 
Always  animated,  always  gay,  witty  and  insatiate,  he  frequented 
at  will  the  coulisses  of  the  Opera,  the  chauff  oir  of  the  Comedie, 
or  took  supper  *^  chez  les  soeurs  Verrieres."  A  natural,  in- 
stinctive being,  he  was  disturbed  neither  by  the  maxims  of  the 
Encyclopaedists  nor  the  lachrymose  penitence  of  his  moralizing 
friend  Greuze. 

In  an  age  of  exteriorization,  when  the  surface  of  things  must 
perforce  be  in  fastidious  accord  with  the  complexion  of  the 
moment,  it  was  inevitable  that  the  decorative  arts  should  enjoy 
high  esteem.  Already  well  known  through  his  work  for  Berge- 
ret,  and  for  the  royal  chateau  de  Bellevue,  it  was  natural  that 
Fragonard  should  have  been  among  those  chosen  by  Drouais  to 
adorn  the  new  pavilion  being  erected  for  Mme.  du  Barry  at 
Louveciennes,  overlooking  the  Seine  near  Marly.  Nothing  was 
spared  in  making  the  structure  a  miracle  of  refined  allurement. 
Ledoux  was  the  architect,  Lecomte,  Pajou,  Vasse,  and  AUegrain 
contributed  the  sculpture,  and  Vernet,  Halle,  Van  Loo,  and 
others  the  paintings.  There  were  timepieces  by  Lepaute,  carv- 
ings by  Gouthiere,  and  tapestries  by  Cozette,  while  from  the 
gilded  wainscoting  glanced  demurely  Greuze 's  ^  Cruche  cassee.' 
It  was  in  his  series  of  four  panels  painted  for  this  cabinet  of 
beauty  and  licence  that  Fragonard  achieved  the  cardinal  tri- 

[10] 


LE    RENDEZ-VOUS 

By  Jean-Honore  Fragonard 

[Courtesy  of  J.  Pierpont  Morgan,  Esq.] 


JEAN-HONORE    FRAGONARD 

mnph  of  his  career.  Conceived  by  the  favourite  herself,  this 
*  Roman  d 'Amour  de  la  Jeunesse  '  epitomizes  in  chaste  and  ap- 
pealing accents  that  same  Romance  of  Love  and  Youth  with 
which  Fragonard  was  so  familiar.  And  yet  the  work,  fitting  as 
it  seems,  was  never  placed  upon  the  walls  for  which  it  was  in- 
tended. The  reason  was  not  because  Mme.  du  Barry  lacked 
fimds,  nor  because  Vien's  lubricous  classicism  was  deemed 
more  appropriate,  but  possibly  because  the  artist  had  been  a 
shade  too  explicit  in  the  matter  of  portraiture.  It  was  one  thing 
to  picture  the  golden-haired,  fresh-tinted  creature  from  Cham- 
pagne as  a  fancy  shepherdess,  but  Louis  le  Bien-Aime  could 
hardly  have  relished  being  depicted  as  her  companion.  The 
royal  sybarite  doubtless  refused  to  sanction  even  this  faint 
record  of  his  profligacy,  so  Fragonard 's  idyl,  which  traced  in 
such  captivating  terms  the  love  of  king  and  courtesan,  was  sup- 
planted by  decorations  in  no  way  comparable  to  his  dream  of 
youthful  fondness  and  frailty.  It  is  even  doubtful  whether  the 
painter  received  proper  indemnity,  though  in  any  case  he  must 
have  somewhat  sadly  rolled  up  the  canvases  and  placed  them  in 
the  comer  of  his  studio  where  they  remained  neglected  in  the 
flush  of  a  life  crowned  by  success  and  filled  with  eager  pleasure. 
The  same  mad  craze  for  luxurious  appointments  permeated  all 
classes  of  society,  all  save  the  sullen,  brooding  peasantry  who 
loomed  more  and  more  ominously  in  the  background,  and  whom 
La  Bruyere  alone  had  seen  in  their  true  light.  As  du  Barry 
was  employing  Ledoux  and  Fragonard  in  the  adornment  of  her 
pavilion,  so  had  la  Guimard  secured  their  services  in  beautify- 
ing her  famous  ^*  Temple  de  Terpsichore  ''  in  the  rue  de  la 
Chaussee  d'Antin.  The  two  projects  were  carried  forward  al- 
most simultaneously,  and,  oddly  enough,  ended  in  a  somewhat 
similar  manner.  Annoyed,  it  is  inferred,  by  his  procrastina- 
tion, *^  la  belle  damnee,''  as  Marmontel  none  too  deferentially 
christened  her,  quarrelled  with  the  painter  who  promptly  and 

[11] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

generously  left  the  work  to  be  finished  by  none  other  than 
Jacques-Louis  David,  then  on  the  threshold  of  his  stormy  and 
triumphant  career. 

Weary  of  endless  fetes  and  numerous  princesses  of  the  opera 
or  the  theatre,  Fragonard  had  meanwhile  married,  on  17  June 
1769,  at  the  age  of  thirty-seven,  a  simple,  wholesome  lass  of 
eighteen  from  his  native  town.  The  wedding  itself  was  not 
without  its  air  of  refreshing  simplicity,  having  been  celebrated 
at  the  church  of  Saint-Lambert  among  the  green  fields  and 
winding  lanes  of  Yaugirard,  then  a  suburb  of  the  capital.  Pos- 
sessing less  style  and  decidedly  more  common  sense  than  the 
Parisiennes  about  her,  Marie- Anne  Gerard,  later  known  as  *Ma 
caissiere, ' '  made  a  prudent,  though  scarcely  inspiring  wife.  The 
family,  which  was  soon  augmented  by  the  arrival  from  Grasse 
of  Marguerite  Gerard,  a  younger  and  far  prettier  sister-in-law, 
and  also  by  her  brother,  Henri  Gerard,  all  lived  comfortably 
together  in  the  Galleries  of  the  Louvre  which,  since  the  time  of 
Henri  IV,  had  been  divided  into  apartments  for  those  *'  excel- 
lentz  maitres,"  the  artists.  To  Fragonard 's  quarters  on  the 
ground  floor  often  came  Hubert  Robert  and  Saint-Non,  Hall, 
the  miniaturist,  who  brought  his  flute  and  his  beautiful  daugh- 
ters Adele  and  Lucie,  Greuze,  bilious  and  irascible,  the  Vernets, 
and  de  Launay,  all  delighting  in  "  Taimable  Frago's  "  hospital- 
ity and  the  picturesque  diversity  of  a  studio  containing  BouUe 
furniture,  Beauvais  tapestries,  a  tiny  fountain,  a  rustic  swing 
with  toylike  trees  dotted  about,  and  a  memorable  Benvenuto 
vase.  Save  for  a  leisurely  journey  to  Italy  as  the  guest  of 
Bergeret,  rich  Receveur-general,  whose  tastes  were  quite  as  gas- 
tronomic as  they  were  artistic,  Fragonard  remained  faithful  to 
his  lodgings  in  the  Louvre  and  his  country  retreat  at  Petit- 
Bourg,  near  Corbeil.  With  the  advent  of  his  daughter  Rosalie, 
and  his  son,  Alexandre-Evariste,  familiarly  known  as  ^'  Fan- 
fan,'^  his  devotion  to  domestic  life  assumed  new  depth  and 

[12] 


JEAN-HONORE    FRAGONAED 

stability.  Memories  of  prentice  days  with  wise,  sane  Chardin 
seemed  to  drift  back  to  him.  He  became  ahnost  a  little  Flemish 
master,  painting  with  unsuspected  penetration  and  insight  such 
episodes  as '  La  Jeune  Mere,'  *  La  Visite  a  la  Nourrice,' '  L'Heu- 
reuse  fecondite,'  and  *  Les  Beignets.'  It  was  an  existence  quite 
cahn  and  equable.  The  wayward  *  Baisers  '  of  former  years 
had  become  '  Les  Baisers  matemels.'  The  provocative  creature 
of  ^  L'Escarpolette  '  had  been  superseded  by  *  Mo'sieur  Fanfan  ' 
learning  to  walk,  or  ride  a  hobby  horse,  or  straddle  the  back  of  a 
big  house  dog.  Not  only  did  he  imperceptibly  become  one  of  the 
first  and  greatest  of  intimists,  he  loved  equally  well  to  paint 
outdoor  scenes.  His  records  of  peasant  life  are  veracious  and 
exact.  They  have  little  of  the  pretty  deceit  of  their  day.  His 
shepherds  are  not  operatic,  his  shepherdesses  are  not  made  of 
Sevres.  To  everything  he  treated  Fragonard  brought  the  same 
clarity  of  vision,  the  same  lightness  yet  surety  of  touch.  Just 
as  he  had  anticipated  impressionism  in  his  views  of  the  Italian 
villas,  just  as  in  his  endearing  glimpses  of  domestic  felicity  he 
had  antedated  the  later  apostles  of  intimacy,  so  in  farmyard  in- 
cident or  landscape  he  gave  the  art  of  his  time  fresh  sincerity 
and  significance.  While  Gallic  in  interpretation,  it  is  manifest 
that  certain  of  these  inspirations  came  from  outside  his  native 
land.  If  his  more  fanciful  and  pagan  conceptions  descend  from 
the  florid  Rubens,  it  is  equally  true  that  his  interiors  often  recall 
ter  Borch  or  Vermeer,  and  his  trees,  meadows,  and  skies  those 
of  Ruisdael  and  Hobbema.  Though  it  is  unlikely  that  the  busy 
Frago  ever  journeyed  to  the  Low  Countries,  it  is  a  matter  of 
note  that  he  was  familiar  with  the  already  important  collection 
of  Dutch  and  Flemish  canvases  then  in  the  Luxembourg.  A 
Greek  at  bottom,  he  was  gifted  with  unfaltering  instinct  for  that 
which  was  articulate  and  expressive  wherever  it  might  be  found. 
Despite  a  very  human  laxity  in  other  directions,  in  questions  of 
art  he  was  concise,  specific,  and  logical.    While  his  feeling  for 

[13] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

form  and  rhythm  was  clearly  classic,  his  work  was  imbued  with 
a  nervous  grace  and  daintiness  wholly  new.  His  divinities  still 
inhabited  Olympus,  but  it  was  Olympus  feminized. 

As  the  years  slipped  by  and  good  Marie- Anne  grew  scarcely 
less  prudent  and  phlegmatic,  it  was  inevitable  that  her  place  in 
the  household  should  have  been  in  various  ways  filled  by  Mar- 
guerite Gerard,  among  whose  attractions  were  a  sprightly  wit, 
a  head  of  brown  wavy  hair,  a  pair  of  bright  eyes,  a  small,  slightly 
upturned  nose,  and  cherry  lips.  More  adaptable  than  her  elder 
sister,  who  still  wore  her  crisp  white  cap  and  spoke  in  the  none 
too  limpid  accent  of  the  South,  Marguerite  readily  made  her 
presence  felt.  Under  the  painter's  inspiration  she  developed  a 
slender,  imitative  talent,  and  often  her  ^*  bon  ami  Frago  "  would 
bend  over  the  easel  adding  deft  touches  here  and  there  and  ab- 
sorbing the  fragrance  of  a  young  being  who  soon  came  to  embody 
for  him  *^  la  poesie  ''  and  presumably  more.  Decorative  paint- 
ing was  by  no  means  neglected  along  with  the  multitude  of  tasks 
including  illustrations  for  Don  Quixote  and  La  Fontaine,  which 
date  from  this  period.  On  several  occasions  the  entire  family 
was  installed  at  Cassan  where  Fragonard  was  engaged  in  embel- 
lishing Bergeret's  new  villa.  The  summers  at  Cassan,  and  at 
Folie-Beaujon,  found  their  record  in  quantities  of  sketches  and 
larger  compositions  dashed  off  with  astonishing  virtuosity,  many 
of  them  fugitive,  impromptu  glimpses  of  perhaps  the  happiest 
hours  of  the  painter's  life.  Though  the  only  cloud  thus  far  had 
been  the  death  of  his  daughter  Rosalie  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  it 
was  not  long  before  the  sky  began  to  darken  fatefuUy.  The 
States-General  had  met  in  May  1789,  and  already  catch  phrases 
of  freedom  and  progress  were  penetrating  the  studios.  Although 
largely  supported  by  the  crown,  the  artists  of  the  Louvre  were 
republican  in  birth  and  sympathies  and  were  easily  swept  along 
by  the  rising  hurricane  of  liberal  enthusiasm.  In  September  of 
the  same  year  the  names  of  Mme.  Fragonard  and  Marguerite 

[14] 


LA  LETTRE  D'AMOUR 
By  Jean-Honore  Fragonard 
[Courtesi/  of  J.  Pierpont  Morgan,  Esq.^ 


JEAN-HONORE    FRAGONARD 

Gerard  as  well  as  those  of  Mmes.  Moitte,  David,  Suvee,  and 
Vien  figured  among  the  list  of  citoyennes  who  offered  to  the  As- 
sembly their  tribute  of  rings,  bracelets,  and  jewels  of  every 
description  for  the  national  defence.  Within  a  few  feverish 
months  all  were  plunged  into  the  greatest  social  convulsion  the 
world  has  ever  witnessed.  The  change  was  cruelly  sudden.  Be- 
fore anyone  could  realize  it  the  Reign  of  Rococo  had  given  way 
to  the  Reign  of  Terror. 

Fragonard,  lacking  the  aggressive  temperament  of  David 
and  his  circle,  was  completely  bewildered.  There  seemed  noth- 
ing he  could  do.  His  wealthy  protectors  were  seeking  safer 
quarters,  and  surly,  red-capped  mobs,  maddened  by  the  lust  of 
blood,  thronged  the  streets  and  squares.  Arrests  were  being 
made  on  every  side.  Hubert  Robert  was  flung  into  Saint-Lazare 
and  Hall  was  forced  to  flee  the  country,  while  from  his  windows 
the  anxious  little  painter  daily  saw  groups  of  sansculottes  drag 
the  "  mauvais  riches  "  off  to  prison  or  the  guillotine.  Shaken 
in  spirit  and  filled  with  dismay  by  the  scenes  of  horror  which 
constantly  met  his  eye,  it  was  not  strange  that  *'  le  petit  papa 
Fragonard,''  as  they  had  come  to  call  him,  should  often  have 
thought  of  bright,  serene  Grasse.  Taking  with  him  his  long 
neglected  panels  he  one  day  slipped  away  to  the  South,  finding, 
with  his  cousins  the  Mauberts,  a  grateful  welcome.  Here  at 
Grasse  he  passed  considerable  time,  and  it  was  here,  in  the  se- 
cluded, cypress-screened  house  of  his  kind  host  that  the '  Roman 
d 'Amour  de  la  Jeimesse  '  found  at  last  its  true  setting,  a  setting 
more  enduring  than  it  would  ever  have  known  at  Louveciennes. 

In  the  large  salon  on  the  lower  floor,  with  its  windows  look- 
ing out  upon  the  garden  where  pomegranates,  orange  trees,  pur- 
ple hollyhocks,  and  great  masses  of  geraniums  shimmered  in 
the  sunlight,  Fragonard  completed,  harmonized,  and  fused  into 
single  effective  unit  his  immortal  love  pastoral.  In  size  and 
general  arrangement  the  room  was  admirably  suited  to  receive 

[15] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

the  four  subjects  already  finished,  and  to  these  he  added  a  fifth, 
painted  four  dessus  de  porte,  a  panel  above  the  mantelpiece, 
and  four  connecting  shafts.  Although  opinions  vary,  the  logical 
order  of  the  series  is  obviously: — *  La  Poursuite,'  *  Le  Rendez- 
vous,' *  La  Lettre  d 'Amour, '  ^  L'Amant  couronne,'  and  *  L 'Aban- 
don.' Nothing  in  the  art  of  Fragonard  or  the  art  of  his  con- 
temporaries quite  approaches  the  persuasive  charm  of  this 
Romance  of  Love  and  Youth.  Not  only  is  the  narrative  carried 
along  with  just  the  proper  note  of  precision  in  the  larger  panels, 
it  is  also  suggested  with  playful  symbolism  in  the  minor  com- 
positions. It  is  Paradise  and  Earth,  a  blissful  Paradise  with 
a  chubby  deity  chasing  doves  about  in  midair,  and  a  smiling 
Earth,  profusely  fiowered  and  peopled  by  a  young  couple  whose 
every  movement  is  cadenced  by  the  pulse  of  love.  The  gallant 
who  offers  the  emblematic  rose,  who  climbs  the  terrace  where 
the  chosen  one  awaits  him,  who  is  by  turns  ardent  and  trium- 
phant, is  beyond  question  Louis  XV  minus  nearly  half  a  century 
of  self-indulgence.  His  Bourbon  profile  grows  less  exact  after 
the  first  and  second  panels,  but  in  them  it  is  unmistakable.  The 
slender  blonde  who  accepts  his  suit  with  such  studied  artless- 
ness,  such  inviting  reserve,  is  of  course  Mme.  du  Barry  whose 
white  throat  was  soon  to  be  severed  by  the  guillotine.  In  the 
fourth  scene,  *  L'Amant  couronne,'  it  is  permissible  to  infer 
that  the  youthful  artist  who  has  been  called  upon  to  immortalize 
their  happiness  is  none  other  than  Fragonard  himself  whose 
dark  curls  and  clear  cut  features  are  also  visible  in  *  L'Armoire  ' 
and  other  canvases.  It  was  an  age  of  touching  sensibility  as 
well  as  avid  pleasure,  and  in  the  last  panel  Fragonard  shows  his 
dainty  shepherdess  musing  ruefully  alone  at  the  foot  of  a  marble 
column  which  is  surmounted  by  a  mocking  and  admonishing 
cupid.  The  loved  one  has  departed,  the  flowers  have  withered, 
and  over  the  park  has  settled  the  chill  of  autumn  tinging  all 
things  with  subdued  fatality.    Each  of  the  groups  is  delicately 

[16] 


JEAN-HONOEE    FRAGONARD 

varied  as  to  colour  and  disposition.  Blossoms  become  brighter 
and  costumes  more  vivid  as  the  climax  is  approached  and  dimin- 
ish in  intensity  toward  the  end,  the  final  episode  being  almost  a 
monochrome  in  russet  brown.  Fluent,  audacious  dexterity  of 
handling  is  everywhere  apparent.  Silks  of  blush-pink,  mauve, 
amber-yellow,  or  pale  blue  vie  in  richness  with  abounding  clus- 
ters of  bloom.  All  the  resources  of  an  iridescent  palette  have 
been  called  into  play  throwing  into  just  sufficient  relief  the  ex- 
pressive pantomime  of  the  figures.  The  whole  spirit  of  the  story 
is  imbued  with  discreet  restraint  as  well  as  luxuriant  radiance. 
It  is  poetized  longing.    It  is  passion  made  lyrical. 

For  over  a  century  Fragonard's  Romance  of  Love  and  Youth 
remained  quite  as  he  had  left  it  in  this  silent  room  with  its 
Beauvais  tapestries,  gilt  consoles,  couches,  and  tabourets — this 
room  so  filled  with  the  fragrance  of  past,  faded  elegance.  It 
was  not,  in  fact,  until  8  February  1898,  that  the  paintings  left 
the  possession  of  M.  Malvilan,  a  grandson  of  the  artist's  cousin, 
M.  Maubert,  on  which  date  they  were  sold  at  Cannes,  bringing 
1,250,000  francs.  During  the  autumn  of  the  same  year  they 
were  exhibited  in  London,  and  were  subsequently  purchased  by 
Mr.  J.  Pierpont  Morgan.  Yet  not  all  of  Fragonard's  sojourn 
at  Grasse  was  spent  in  dreaming  anew  with  mingled  joy  and 
pathos  dreams  of  former,  happier  days.  Faithful  as  he  was  to 
his  own  treasured  kingdom  of  grace  and  beauty,  he  did  not 
wholly  escape  the  troubled  issues  of  the  hour.  Echoes  of  the 
storm  penetrated  the  farthest  comers  of  la  Provence,  and,  more- 
over, the  sanguinary  Maximin  Isnard  was  his  neighbour.  If 
tradition  may  be  accepted  it  was  the  little  exile  himself  who,  in 
an  outburst  of  patriotism,  painted  the  heads  of  Robespierre  and 
abbe  Gregoire  together  with  the  emblems  of  law  and  liberty 
such  as  the  Phrygian  bonnet,  axes,  and  fasces  which  ornament 
the  stairway  of  his  host's  house.  In  any  event  it  is  consoling  to 
know  that  though  things  were  going  so  badly  with  his  friends  in 

[17] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

Paris,  the  artist's  visit  did  not  prove  altogether  fruitless,  as  is 
shown  by  a  receipt  recently  discovered  in  the  Maison  Malvilan 
which  reads: — "  J 'ay  regu  de  mon  cher  cousin  Maubert,  pour 
ouvrages  de  peinture,  la  sonune  de  trois  mille  six  cent  livres, 
dont  quittance  jusqu'a  ce  jour,  pour  solde  de  tout  compte,  a 
Grasse,  ce  dix  mars  1791.    Fragonard,  peintre  du  Roy." 

Returning  to  the  capital  on  the  morrow  of  the  September 
Massacres,  Fragonard  found  the  situation  even  worse  than  when 
he  had  left.  The  passion  for  blood  had  not  been  slaked  and  the 
Paris  which  greeted  him  was  not  the  Paris  he  had  once  known. 
The  streets  still  swarmed  with  drunken  soldiers,  beggars,  thieves, 
and  wild-eyed  hags.  Saint-Non  was  dead  and  there  were  few 
who  recognized  the  tiny  fellow  with  short  white  locks,  flowing 
grey  mantle,  and  loosely  knotted  scarf  who  dodged  about  in 
search  of  some  friend  who  might  drop  him  a  word  of  welcome. 
The  very  soul  of  things  had  altered.  Financiers  and  nymphs  of 
the  Opera  were  scattered.  The  Loves  and  Graces  had  departed, 
and  Beauty  had  been  stamped  under  foot.  Idle  gallants  no 
longer  danced  minuets  or  tinkled  lutes  under  the  protect- 
ing trees.  Instead,  hot  headed  fellows  mounted  rostra  and 
harangued  the  populace  in  the  name  of  liberty  and  equality. 
The  insinuating  songs  of  de  La  Borde  were  drowned  by  the 
majestic  roar  of  the  Marseillaise  and  art  was  called  upon  not 
to  please  or  flatter  but  to  flame  and  to  inspire.  The  blatant 
Graeco-Romanism  of  David  was  in  the  ascendant,  ^*  Fanfan  " 
was  rapidly  becoming  Alexandre-Evariste  Fragonard,  equally 
distinguished  and  equally  monotonous  as  painter  or  sculptor, 
and  Marguerite  Gerard  was  exhibiting  at  the  Societe  des  Arts 
vapid,  feeble  reminiscences  which  could  hardly  have  brought 
her  master  either  pride  or  joy.  All  seemed  strange  and  hope- 
less. Cherubino  was  forgotten.  He  belonged  to  another  and  a 
brighter  world.  Moreover,  the  brushes  had  lost  their  magic. 
There  remained  on  the  palette  no  glittering  dust  from  invisible 

[18] 


L'AMANT    COURONNE 

By  Jean-Honore  Fragonard 

[Courtesy  of  J.   Pierjiont  Morgan,   Esq."] 


JEAN-HONORE    FRAGONARD 

butterfly  wings.  There  is  no  telling  what  might  have  befallen 
the  distraught  and  unhappy  painter  had  it  not  been  for  the  all- 
powerful  David,  who,  though  relentless  to  so  many  others,  never 
forgot  the  kindness  Fragonard  had  shown  him  years  before. 
On  David  ^s  reconomendation  he  was  made  a  member  of  the  Jury 
des  Arts  and  later  President  du  Conservatoire  du  Museum.  He 
even  figured  with  Lesueur  in  the  place  of  honour  at  the  planting 
of  a  Tree  of  Liberty  in  the  Court  of  the  Louvre,  and  by  an 
ironical  turn  of  fortune  was  detailed  to  make  inventories  of  some 
of  the  same  luxurious  private  hotels  he  had  once  helped  to  deco- 
rate. The  temper  as  well  as  the  taste  of  those  about  him  was 
visibly  turning  against  all  that  Fragonard  and  his  art  repre- 
sented. He  courageously  tried  in  two  or  three  empty,  ambitious 
canvases  to  adjust  himself  to  the  manner  of  David,  but  his  heart 
was  not  in  the  work.  So  little  were  his  own  family  in  sympathy 
with  the  traditions  he  still  cherished  that  one  day  Alexandre- 
Evariste  consigned  to  the  flames  a  number  of  sketches  and  prints 
by  his  father,  exclaiming,  with  pride,  **  Je  fais  im  holocauste  au 
bon  gout !  "  The  hand  which  had  once  painted  in  a  single  hour 
the  fluent,  virile  portrait  of  M.  de  La  Breteche  shortly  became 
weak  and  faltering,  and  the  income,  formerly  so  ample,  dwindled 
to  almost  nothing.  At  one  period  Mme.  Fragonard  was  even 
forced  to  beg  at  the  butcher  and  bake  shops  of  the  quarter.  Be- 
fore long  Vivant-Denon  not  only  removed  him  from  his  post 
with  the  Museum  but  soon  suppressed  his  pension  as  well.  They 
were  bitter  months  for  one  who  had  hitherto  tasted  naught  save 
success  and  happiness.  In  distress  he  turned  to  Marguerite 
Gerard  who  replied  with  daintily  phrased  platitudes  counselling 
him  to  practise  forethought  and  economy.  He  had  showered 
upon  her  an  infinity  of  affection  and  inspiration.  All  she  had 
for  him  in  his  hour  of  darkness  was  egotism  and  discreet  advice. 
On  his  return  from  the  South  Fragonard  had  again  taken  up 
residence  in  the  Louvre  where  he  had  lived  since  the  day  the 

[19] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

yoimg  pensioner  of  the  king  had  proudly  become  painter  to  the 
king.  As  though  his  trials  and  disappointments  were  not  al- 
ready enough,  he  was  compelled  to  submit  to  another,  and  still 
greater  humiliation,  for  one  night  Napoleon,  riding  by  with 
Duroc  and  seeing  a  few  modest  lights  gleaming  from  the  win- 
dows of  the  Galleries,  ordered  the  '"''  immediate  evacuation  '^  of 
the  place,  fearing  that  a  chance  fire  might  imperil  paintings 
and  statuary  sacked  from  every  corner  of  Europe.  Not  wishing 
to  be  away  from  his  beloved  Louvre,  Pragonard  moved  across  to 
the  rue  de  Grenelle-Saint-Honore,  lodging  with  a  restaurant 
keeper  named  Yeri,  in  the  Palais-du-Tribunat,  now  the  Palais- 
Royal.  Peeling  himself  isolated  he  virtually  gave  up  work,  and 
being  active  despite  his  years,  spent  the  time  pattering  about 
the  streets  and  gardens  ruefully  noting  changes  which  were  fast 
destroying  the  ancient  aspect  of  the  town.  On  certain  of  these 
wanderings  he  doubtless  happened  upon  stray  engravings  by  de 
Launay  or  Beauvarlet  of  canvases  which  he  must  have  recalled 
with  confused,  pathetic  rapture ;  though  on  the  whole,  there  was 
little  to  remind  him  of  a  vanished  and  discredited  Arcady.  One 
afternoon  on  returning  from  the  Champ-de-Mars  tired  and 
feverish  he  entered  Veri's  and  called  for  an  ice.  It  brought  on 
cerebral  congestion,  and  by  five  on  the  morning  of  22  August 
1806,  he  was  dead. 

His  entire  life  save  those  few  troubled  years  toward  the  last 
had  been  itself  a  *  Roman  d 'Amour  de  la  Jeunesse,'  expressed 
in  continuous  variants  on  the  blues,  whites,  and  reds  of  his  own 
luminous  Grasse.  Though  he  touched  with  flexible  ease  many 
themes,  love  was  his  favourite  theme — love  which  he  pressed  into 
the  petals  of  a  rose,  a  rose  worn  now  at  the  breast,  now  offered 
in  mystic,  virgin  sacrifice,  now  lying  crushed  upon  the  floor. 
Por  a  decade  or  more  before  the  end  came  the  art  which  he 
practised  with  such  infectious  enthusiasm  had  been  a  thing  of 
the  past,  yet  he  lingered  on  a  solitary,  pathetic  reminder  of  those 

[20] 


JEAN-HONORE    FRAGONARD 

pleasure  loving  days  when  Ms  fame  had  seemed  so  secure.  The 
reign  of  aristocracy  was  indeed  over.  Republican  aggression 
and  imperial  authority  were  the  successive  watchwords  of  David, 
who  at  intervals  laid  aside  his  Roman  toga  to  picture  with 
trenchant  power  the  leaders  of  this  vast  movement  for  the  eman- 
cipation of  the  human  spirit.  It  was  inevitable  that  the  Journal 
de  Paris  and  the  Moniteur  de  FEmpire  should  scarcely  mention 
the  passing  of  Fragonard,  and  that  the  lightness,  truth,  and 
impromptu  freedom  of  his  art  should  find  scant  favour  at  the 
dawn  of  so  stressful  and  grandiose  an  era.  In  his  own  elusive, 
unpretentious  way  he  represented  the  principal  movements, 
artistic,  social,  and  intellectual  of  his  age.  A  modernized 
Athenian,  he  learned  from  Boucher  and  Tiepolo  the  secrets  of 
decorative  composition.  Through  Chardin,  Watteau,  and  espe- 
cially Rubens,  he  enriched  France  with  the  fruitful  Flemish 
tradition,  while  there  are  in  several  of  his  more  serious  and 
aspiring  canvases  hints  of  that  classic  revival  which  followed  the 
discoveries  at  Pompeii  and  Herculaneimi.  Typifying  in  many 
respects  the  frivolous  hedonism  of  Crebillon,  Laclos,  and  Mme. 
d'Epinay,  he  nevertheless  echoed  at  moments  the  scepticism  of 
Voltaire  and  the  return  to  nature  so  explicitly  preached  by 
Rousseau.  Yet  above  all  else  he  was  a  poet,  not  a  mere  versifier, 
a  painter  pure  and  simple,  not  a  philosopher  or  a  rhetorician. 
Whatever  his  task,  he  always  managed  to  illumine  and  adorn  it. 
He  gave  to  eroticism  new  mystery ;  he  etherealized  feeling  just 
as  he  volatilized  colour.  Personally  as  well  as  artistically  he  is 
directly  allied  to  the  chief  modern  school,  that  of  the  Impres- 
sionists, his  great-granddaughter  having  been  the  beautiful  and 
gifted  Mme.  Berthe  Morizot,  wife  of  Eugene  Manet.  If  he  has 
to-day  regained  his  rightful  position,  if  his  memory  has  been 
appropriately  honoured  at  Grasse,  Besangon,  Nice,  and  Paris, 
it  is  because  in  him  is  recognized  not  only  the  fitting  epitome  of 
his  time  but  a  painter  who  must  always  remain  youthful  and 

[21] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

rich  in  inspiration.  His  colouring  still  retains  its  freshness  and 
its  bloom.  Not  a  single  one  of  his  roses  has  faded,  nor  can  ever 
fade.  And  neither  the  ceaseless  tramp  of  armies  nor  a  century 
of  neglect  has  been  able  to  obliterate  this  expressive,  spontane- 
ous art — ^this  art  which  is  both  epilogue  and  prologue,  which  in 
tender,  gracious  accents  bids  adieu  to  the  old  regime  and  salutes 
the  coming  of  the  new. 


[22] 


ANTOINE  WIERTZ 


ANTOINE    WIERTZ 

Portrait  of  the  artist  painted  by  himself 
[Wiertz  Museum,  Brussels^ 


ANTOINE  WIERTZ 


IT  was  not  until  years  after  the  passing  of  the  pale  captain 
who  had  come  up  from  Corsica  and  had  changed  for  awhile 
the  map  of  Europe,  and  so  profoundly  the  destiny  of  man, 
that  art  resumed  her  true  course  of  development.  Rigid  and 
invincible,  the  resurrected  heroes  of  Greece  and  Rome  continued 
to  stalk  before  the  eyes  of  an  enthralled  populace.  Not  satisfied 
with  having  formalized  the  art  of  his  own  country,  David,  like 
some  conqueror  of  old,  crossed  over  into  Belgium  and  encased 
Flemish  painting  in  the  casques,  breastplates,  and  stiff  draperies 
of  bygone  ages.  The  period  was  one  of  slavish  subserviency  or 
stormy,  ineffectual  revolt.  Oscillating  between  the  dominant 
influence  of  a  single  powerful  tradition  and  the  gradual  awak- 
ening of  social  consciousness,  the  painters  of  these  arid  days 
reflected  little  save  restlessness  and  uncertainty.  All  were  in  a 
more  or  less  degree  victims  of  the  impending  transition  from 
precedent  to  personal  liberty,  from  established  authority  to  the 
sovereign  rights  of  the  individual.  The  most  acute  embodiment 
of  this  ferment  of  the  human  spirit,  this  fever-dream  which  fol- 
lowed the  blood  letting  of  the  Napoleonic  era  was  Antoine 
Wiertz.  It  is  less  as  an  artist  that  this  singular  figure  chal- 
lenges attention  than  as  the  man  who  best  typifies  that  night- 
mare which  preceded  the  dawn  of  rationalism  and  democracy. 
With  scant  exception  it  has  been  customary  to  consider  this 
extraordinary  being  as  a  mere  freak  or  madman  in  no  way  in- 
fluenced by  current  conditions,  or  as  one  whose  work  possesses 

[25] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

little  interest  beyond  that  of  eccentricity.  Unbalanced  Wiertz 
certainly  was,  and  incontestably  lacking  from  an  artistic  point 
of  view,  yet  on  his  vast  canvases  are  pictured  as  nowhere  else 
the  death  agonies  of  Antiquity  and  the  crude  vehemence  of  the 
modern  world.  The  man's  entire  existence  was  an  unceasing 
struggle  to  attain  self-adjustment.  He  was  torn  asunder  by 
conflicting  and  incompatible  ideals.  Possessing  what  he  fancied 
was  veritable  Promethean  fire,  he  was  jeered  at  by  his  contem- 
poraries. Hounded  out  of  classic  precincts,  he  took  hold  of 
actual  issues  only  to  be  maligned  and  misunderstood.  Through 
the  sheer  power  of  abnormality  he  nevertheless  managed  to  force 
himself  into  the  company  of  the  great,  unforgettable  masters 
of  his  own  and  former  times.  He  was  not  a  Rubens  or  a  Michel- 
angelo as  he  supposed,  yet  by  measuring  himself  against  such 
giants  during  years  of  frenzied  endeavour  he  has  succeeded  in 
being  remembered  along  with  them.  Ambition,  however  colos- 
sal, is  an  insufficient  asset,  but  when  that  ambition  is  expressed 
in  transcendent  manifestations  of  misguided  genius  the  result 
is  apt  to  be  formidable.  It  is  impossible  to  gaze  upon  Wiertz 's 
tortured  canvases  or  trace  the  story  of  his  titanic  and  forlorn 
life  struggle  without  falling  under  the  spell  of  an  abounding 
individuality.  He  seizes  upon  you  like  some  fatal  obsession 
conjuring  up  visions  hideous  or  imploring.  Involuntarily  you 
believe  that  there  must  lurk  somewhere  within  the  man  and  his 
work  a  baffled  beauty,  a  sublimity  which,  by  the  merest  mis- 
chance, became  grotesque  pretence  or  tragic  incompletion. 

In  surveying  the  field  of  art  it  is  by  no  means  obligatory  to 
choose  only  the  stereotyped  products  of  organized  effort,  only 
those  names  which  have  been  hallowed  by  general  approval. 
The  lesson  of  failure  is  quite  as  significant  as  the  lesson  of 
success,  and  in  the  case  of  Antoine  Wiertz  the  failure  was 
complete  enough  to  serve  any  conceivable  purpose.  With  this 
angry,  turbulent  spirit  you  enter  at  a  bound  that  vague  reabn, 

[26] 


ANTOINE    WIERTZ 

half  aesthetic,  half  speculative,  which  has  lured  countless  ar- 
dent souls  to  their  destruction — that  province  where  thought 
so  often  triumphs  over  taste,  where  the  idea  and  the  image 
are  constantly  at  war.  A  child  of  the  great  Revolution  and 
an  eye  witness  of  the  valiant  uprising  in  which  Belgium  won 
her  independence,  Wiertz's  nature  was  unalterably  militant. 
It  was  in  the  quiet  town  of  Dinant,  on  the  Mouse,  bordering 
the  leafy  recesses  of  the  forest  of  Ardennes,  that  this  strange 
victim  of  aspiration  and  fatality  first  saw  light  on  22  Febru- 
ary 1806.  Antoine  Wiertz  was  the  only  son  of  Louis-FrauQois 
Wiertz,  a  soldier  of  the  Grande  Republique,  and  Catherine 
Disiere,  a  daughter  of  the  people.  His  father,  though  a  native 
of  Rocroy,  was  of  Saxon  origin,  and  in  his  mother's  veins 
flowed  the  blood  of  the  sturdy  and  industrious  Walloons.  In 
the  boy's  earliest  attempts,  in  his  first  recorded  sayings,  and 
through  his  troubled  career,  it  is  impossible  not  to  realize 
that  he  was  an  outcome  of  that  stirring,  sanguinary  idealism 
which  since  1789  had  been  sweeping  all  before  it.  After  four 
years'  campaigning  Louis-Frangois  Wiertz  retired,  wounded, 
to  the  hospital  of  Louvain,  later  resuming  civil  life  in  the 
modest  capacity  of  a  tailor.  On  the  fall  of  the  Empire  he 
entered  the  local  gendarmerie,  and  though  he  never  rose  beyond 
the  rank  of  a  simple  brigadier,  he  was  gifted  with  a  noble  and 
virile  soul  and  exercised  a  profound  influence  over  his  son's 
development.  Aside  from  a  consuming  passion  for  universal 
success  and  renown  he  instilled  into  the  boy's  heart  two  notable 
qualities — a  stoical  indifference  to  mortal  ills  and  an  abiding 
contempt  for  material  reward.  Yet  it  was  of  fame  which  the 
old  soldier  oftenest  spoke,  and  quite  logically  the  father's  love 
of  martial  glory  became  with  the  son  an  unquenchable  thirst  for 
artistic  achievement.  **  My  brushes,"  he  would  exclaim,  *'  are 
my  lances,  a  canvas  is  my  battle-field."  While  it  is  true  that 
he  lost  most  of  his  battles,  the  idea  of  strife,  of  conquest,  never 

[27] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

forsook  him.  It  pursued  him  during  all  those  bitter,  agonizmg 
years,  and  when,  on  that  mellow  June  night  in  Brussels  he  was 
compelled  to  accept  his  final  defeat,  the  struggle  was  heartrend- 
ing in  its  fruitless  intensity. 

JProm  the  outset  there  appears  to  have  been  no  question  con- 
cerning the  lad's  future  calling.  Playing  one  day  beside  his 
mother,  who  was  seated  at  her  spinning-wheel,  he  suddenly  an- 
nounced that  he  wished  to  be  a  king.  ^*  Why?  "  asked  the  good 
dame,  thinking  his  mind  must  be  fixed  upon  the  shock  of  war  or 
the  splendour  of  regal  pageantry.  ^^  So  that  I  might  become  a 
great  painter,"  the  boy  replied.  At  the  age  of  four  he  drew 
with  astonishing  ability,  colouring  his  productions  with  the  juice 
of  berries,  and  by  ten  was  painting  portraits.  A  little  later  he 
carved  out  of  wood  a  frog  which  was  so  lifelike  that  visitors 
would  try  to  make  it  hop  about,  and  which,  on  one  occasion,  a 
swaggering  captain  of  gendarmes  even  attempted  to  impale  on 
the  point  of  his  sword.  The  art  of  engraving  he  also  mastered, 
or  rather  rediscovered,  and  so  locally  famous  had  he  become  by 
twelve,  that  the  proprietor  of  a  popular  inn  at  Ciney  commis- 
sioned him  to  execute  a  sign  for  his  hostelry  which  was  known 
as  the  *'  Cheval  noir."  Although  the  youthful  aspirant  had 
never  before  handled  oil  colours  he  was  so  successful  that  honest 
folk  who  flocked  to  the  celebrated  fairs  of  Ciney  predicted  that 
he  would  one  day  become  the  foremost  sign  painter  of  the  town. 
It  was  about  this  period  that  M.  Paul  de  Maibe,  patron  of  art 
and  member  of  the  States-General,  hearing  of  the  boy's  uncom- 
mon talents,  sent  him  to  school  at  his  own  expense,  afterward 
securing  from  the  king  the  slender  pension  which  enabled  him 
to  continue  his  artistic  studies.  Dinant  naturally  o:ffered  scant 
facilities  for  advanced  instruction,  and,  moreover,  the  lad  was 
nightly  visited  by  the  luminous  apparition  of  a  tall  figure 
wrapped  in  a  flowing  mantle  and  wearing  a  huge  Spanish  hat. 
Its  manner  was  imperious  and  in  its  hands  was  borne  aloft  a 

[28] 


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>> 

H   P^ 

« 

ANTOINE    WIERTZ 

banner  whereon  gleamed  in  letters  of  fire  the  word  **  AN  VERS.  '* 
Young  Wiertz  never  for  an  instant  doubted  that  it  was  the  spirit 
of  Rubens  beckoning  him  to  Antwerp,  and,  already  convinced  of 
his  high  destiny,  to  Antwerp  he  forthwith  proceeded. 

Possessing  naught  save  his  pension  of  one  hundred  florins 
a  year  the  young  enthusiast  desired  little  beyond  ^'  bread,  col- 
ours and  sunlight, '^  though  often  he  was  forced  to  do  without 
all  three.  He  worked  assiduously  at  the  Academy  under  Her- 
reyns  and  Van  Bree,  occupying  a  miserable  attic  room  too 
low  for  him  to  stand  upright  in  and  almost  too  short  to  ac- 
commodate him  when  lying  down.  Though  only  fifteen  he  was 
tall  and  fully  developed  physically,  having  the  stature  of  a 
grown  man,  his  pale,  chiselled  features  being  covered  with  a 
luxuriant  black  beard.  In  his  shabby  cell  was  neither  stove 
nor  fireplace,  and  through  the  battered  casement  or  openings 
in  the  roof  used  to  blow  at  will  bitter  winds  or  puffs  of  snow. 
The  room  was  a  chaotic  jumble  of  books,  papers,  anatomical 
studies,  musical  instrmnents,  and  the  varied  paraphernalia 
necessary  to  the  practice  of  sculpture,  painting,  and  engrav- 
ing. At  times  it  grew  so  cold  that  the  zealous  student  was 
forced  to  take  to  his  bed,  and  more  than  once  fell  asleep  with 
crayon  in  one  hand  and  scalpel  in  the  other.  It  was  a  grue- 
some retreat.  Against  the  bare  wall  dangled  a  skeleton,  and 
opposite  the  door  grinned  a  cleverly  painted  death's  head. 
Few  visitors  ever  crossed  the  threshold,  for  Wiertz  was  re- 
garded as  an  eccentric,  and  between  himself  and  the  world  was 
already  erecting  an  impregnable  barrier.  His  fellow-pupils 
openly  sneered  at  the  strange  recluse  of  the  rue  du  Pont-Saint- 
Bernard  whose  gods  were  Rubens,  Michelangelo,  Homer,  and 
Comeille,  and  whose  only  goddess  was  Glory.  He  never  mar- 
ried, and  while  still  a  student  took  vows  of  chastity,  invincibly 
schooling  himself  against  every  distraction,  every  seduction.  A 
phenomenally  gifted  musician,  he  played  numerous  instruments, 

[29] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

and  when  it  grew  too  dark  to  work  would  thus  divert  his  fancy, 
while  below  on  the  street  passers-by  would  pause  and  listen  to 
the  wild,  haunting  strains  floating  on  the  midnight  air.  Al- 
though he  lived  for  years  in  utter  poverty,  he  did  so  mainly  from 
a  matter  of  principle.  Beyond  a  few  hastily  executed  portraits 
which  he  refused  to  sign,  he  never  made  the  slightest  attempt  to 
sell  his  work,  preferring  to  have  it  always  by  him  for  purposes 
of  alteration  and  correction.  A  wealthy  connoisseur  once  called 
and  offered  an  excellent  figure  for  a  certain  sketch.  **  Keep 
your  gold,*^  cried  Wiertz,  closing  the  door  in  the  intruder's  face, 
"  it  is  death  to  the  artist!  '^ 

In  1828  the  young  Dinantais  competed  unsuccessfully  for 
the  Prix  de  Rome.  It  was  a  cruel  blow  to  his  hopes,  and  a  still 
ruder  shock  to  his  overmastering  pride.  Undaunted,  he  next 
repaired  to  Paris,  where  he  was  so  poor  that  often,  instead  of 
dining,  his  only  expedient  was  to  draw  his  belt  a  bit  tighter 
about  the  waist  in  order  to  lessen  the  inconvenient  void.  He  had 
hoped  to  subsist  by  painting  portraits,  but  not  finding  sitters  at 
any  price  himg  out  a  sign  reading  ^*  Portraits  Gratis."  As 
though  to  enforce  the  irony  of  fate,  no  one  condescended  to  come 
even  on  such  flattering  terms.  Four  years  later  he  again  entered 
the  academic  lists,  this  time  carrying  off  first  honours.  All  the 
soaring  ambition  so  long  held  in  check  at  once  flared  forth  in 
radiant  anticipation.  In  an  ecstatic  letter  to  his  cousin  and 
patron,  Gilain  Disiere,  a  sturdy,  kindly  boatman  of  the  Meuse, 
Wiertz  grandiloquently  announced  that  ^*  the  path  of  glory  " 
lay  open  to  him.  The  Antwerp  officials  gave  a  reception  in  his 
honour,  and  on  his  departure  for  Rome  via  Paris,  the  townsfolk 
of  Dinant  strewed  the  streets  with  flowers,  fired  complimentary 
salutes,  and  entertained  their  young  genius  in  the  Council  Cham- 
ber of  the  Hotel-de-Ville.  No  wonder  after  years  of  anguish 
and  obscurity,  of  fevered,  mocking  dreams  in  the  pitiful  man- 
sards of  Antwerp  and  Paris,  the  marble-browed  visionary's 

[30] 


ANTOINE    WIERTZ 

head  was  completely  turned.  Small  wonder  that  when,  in  the 
summer  of  1834,  he  entered  Rome  by  the  Porta  del  Popolo  to 
the  accompaniment  of  a  crashing  thunderstorm,  he  compla- 
cently regarded  the  incident  as  being  heaven's  recognition  of  his 
arrival  on  the  threshold  of  the  Caesars. 

The  same  unrelaxing  austerity,  the  same  unflinching  devo- 
tion to  what  he  conceived  were  the  supreme  manifestations  of 
artistic  expression,  and  that  same  burning  desire  for  glory  which 
had  characterized  his  student  days  continued  to  torment  Antoine 
Wiertz  during  his  sojourn  in  Rome.  He  worked  incessantly, 
succumbing  to  no  such  disturbing  passions  as  those  which  as- 
sailed poor  Leopold  Robert.  Under  the  aegis  of  Michelangelo 
and  Homer  a  species  of  heroic,  audacious  frenzy  took  posses- 
sion of  his  soul.  At  the  time  he  was  planning  his  huge  canvas 
depicting  the  *  Greeks  and  Trojans  Contending  for  the  Body  of 
Patroclus  '  he  wrote  as  follows  to  his  devoted  but  amazed  boat- 
man cousin,  Gilain  Disiere;  "  I  am  all  impatience  to  begin;  I 
would  have  my  arms  ready  at  hand.  My  brush  strokes  will  be 
furious  and  terrible,  like  the  lance  thrusts  of  the  Greek  heroes. 
I  shall  defy  the  greatest  colourists;  I  shall  measure  myself 
against  Rubens  and  Michelangelo!  "  The  Vatican  and  the 
Sistine  Chapel  had  a  momentous  influence  over  him  just  as 
Notre-Dame  in  Antwerp  had,  when,  a  mere  lad,  he  stood  motion- 
less before  the  Flemish  master's  *  Descent  from  the  Cross.'  All 
the  while  he  was  making  studies  for,  and  actually  painting  his 
*  Patroclus,'  Wiertz  was  inflamed  with  the  ardour  of  conflict, 
more  than  once  exclaiming,  **  I  imagine,  like  Alexander  the 
Great,  that  the  eyes  of  the  universe  are  fixed  upon  me !  "  Within 
six  months  the  composition  was  finished  and  exhibited  at  the 
Academy  of  Saint  Luke  in  the  presence  of  over  a  thousand  en- 
thusiastic artists.  Thorvaldsen,  greatly  impressed,  said:  **  This 
young  man  is  a  giant." 

Yet  the  reception  accorded  *  Patroclus  '  in  Rome  was  not  to 

[31] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

be  duplicated  elsewhere.  When  the  canvas  finally  reached  the 
port  of  Antwerp,  consigned  of  course  to  the  Academy,  that  un- 
perturbed institution  declined  to  pay  the  five  hundred  francs 
carriage,  and,  had  it  not  been  for  the  generous  assistance  of  Van 
Bree,  it  is  difficult  to  conjecture  what  might  have  been  its  fate. 
Pending  its  formal  exhibition  at  Antwerp,  Wiertz  placed  his  pic- 
ture on  private  view  in  the  ancient  convent  of  the  RecoUets,  and 
there  he  sat  almost  alone  day  after  day  playing  the  guitar  and 
confidently  awaiting  his  hour  of  triumph.  Fired  by  the  lust  of 
conquest  he  meanwhile  decided  to  throw  down  the  gauntlet  to 
Ms  mortal  enemy,  Paris,  but  unfortunately  the  big  canvas  ar- 
rived at  the  forbidding  portals  of  the  Louvre  too  late  for  the 
Salon  of  1838.  Wiertz,  in  Homeric  rage,  demanded  its  admit- 
tance, or,  failing  of  that,  permission  to  erect  a  tent  and  publicly 
display  his  masterpiece  in  the  place  du  Louvre.  As  both  re- 
quests were  everywhere  suavely  yet  firmly  refused,  there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  wait  a  year  longer.  The  following  season  he 
sent  '  Patroclus  '  and  three  other  subjects,  including  an  *  En- 
tombment,' painted  at  Liege,  a  work  which  he  assured  his 
friends  marked  the  opening  of  his  *'  duel  with  Rubens,  of  which 
Paris  will  be  the  witness ;  his  duel  with  Paris,  in  which  Rubens 
will  be  his  second."  Unhappily  the  *'  hideous  monster,"  Paris, 
which  he  threatened  to  crush  under  his  heel,  that  "  cancer,"  or, 
as  he  often  called  it,  that  ^'  city  of  suicide,"  declined  to  bow  to 
the  magic  of  his  brushes  and  palette.  The  jury  accepted  three 
of  his  contributions  but  skied  them  all  cruelly,  *  Patroclus,' 
though  hung  in  the  Salle  d'honneur,  being  barely  distinguish- 
able. Wiertz,  cut  to  the  quick,  waited  moodily  about  for  a  few 
weeks  seeking  retribution,  then  left  forever  the  scene  of  his  pain 
and  humiliation.  Press  and  public  had  alike  ignored  him.  It 
was  a  blow  from  which  he  never  recovered,  and  from  thence- 
forth dark  shadows  of  hatred  and  revenge  began  to  gather  closer 
and  closer  about  him.    He  planned  numerous  retaliatory  meas- 

[32] 


THE    REVOLT    OF    HELL    AGAINST    HEAVEN 
By  Antoine  Wiertz 
[Wiertz  Museum,  Brussels] 


ANTOINE    WIERTZ 

ures,  and  the  succeeding  year  actually  had  the  ironical  satisfac- 
tion of  seeing  a  similar  *'  immortal  jury  "  decline  an  admirable 
canvas  by  Rubens,  which  he  had  borrowed  for  the  occasion,  and 
to  which,  in  the  presence  of  witnesses,  he  had  affixed  his  own 
signature. 

The  verdict  of  Paris  was  in  large  measure  sustained  when 
*  Patroclus  '  was  placed  on  exhibition  in  Antwerp  and  in  Brus- 
sels. While  a  few  of  the  critics  praised  it,  most  of  them  were 
openly  hostile.  Classic  themes  were  fast  vanishing  before  the 
rise  of  a  \dgorous  national  school  under  the  leadership  of  Wap- 
pers,  and  the  first  hints  of  that  new,  poignant  actuality  of  which 
Charles  de  Groux  was  to  become  the  apostle  and  Constantin 
Meunier  the  chief  exponent.  Wiertz  felt  out  of  consonance  with 
his  age,  and  in  order  to  justify  and  defend  his  position,  began 
with  brush  and  pencil  a  campaign  of  bitter,  indignant  rebellion 
which  only  ended  with  the  grave.  He  resided  at  Liege  during 
this  period  in  order  to  be  near  his  widowed  mother  for  whom 
his  devotion  was  unbounded.  *  Esmeralda  '  and  *  Quasimodo  ' 
were  the  immediate  results  of  his  visit  to  Paris  and  his  admira- 
tion for  the  Hugoesque.  Other  subjects  followed  in  lightning 
succession,  the  most  important  being  the  *  Revolt  of  Hell '  which 
he  painted  under  the  cupola  of  the  church  of  Saint- Andre.  He 
worked  with  incredible  energy,  covering  in  six  weeks  this  colos- 
sal canvas  measuring  fifty  feet  high  by  thirty  feet  wide,  with 
masses  of  writhing  demons  and  avalanches  of  riven  rock.  **  I 
know  neither  day,  nor  hour,  nor  date,"  he  wrote  at  the  time.  "  I 
know  but  two  things,  the  moment  of  labour,  and  the  moment  of 
repose."  Occasionally  in  the  evening  he  might  be  seen,  tense, 
abstracted,  yet  full  of  filial  solicitude,  strolling  along  the  quai 
de  la  Souveniere  arm  in  arm  with  his  tottering  mother,  soon, 
alas,  to  be  taken  from  him.  Her  death  drove  him  to  Brussels 
where,  housed  in  an  abandoned  factory,  he  completed  the  ^  Tri- 
umph of  Christ,'  in  many  respects  his  most  rational  and  con- 

[33] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

sistent  production.  It  was  this  effort  which  induced  the  govern- 
ment, through  the  intermediary  of  M.  Rogier,  to  build  him  a 
suitable  studio  on  condition  that  upon  his  death  he  should  leave 
all  his  works  in  perpetuity  to  the  State.  And  thus  by  the  spring 
of  1850  his  restless,  sombre  probation  was  over.  He  had  found 
at  last  those  great  bare  walls  he  had  dreamed  of  as  a  child,  and 
which  he  might  now  cover  as  an  ever  encroaching  spirit  world 
saw  fit  to  dictate. 

The  interval  between  his  return  from  Rome  and  his  estab- 
lishment in  what  later  became  the  Musee  Wiertz  marked  the 
creation  of  the  painter's  most  important  classical  and  biblical 
works.  Those  which  followed  were  mainly  of  a  pseudo-phil- 
osophical character,  or  else  sheer,  unredeemed  studies  in  terror 
and  grotesquerie.  Beset  by  all  save  a  slender  handful  of  believ- 
ers Wiertz  made  matters  worse  by  rushing  into  print  at  every 
opportunity.  While  a  few  able,  though  extravagant  effusions, 
among  them  a  *  Eulogy  of  Rubens,'  which  was  crowned  by  the 
Antwerp  Academy,  flowed  from  his  vehement  pen,  for  the  most 
part  his  writings  were  charged  with  exalted  egotism  and  ma- 
jestic presumption.  The  critics  were  the  particular  objects  of 
his  wrath.  He  could  never  forget  them,  and  even  said  that  if 
they  pressed  about  him  after  death  *'  like  a  flock  of  vultures  " 
picking  his  fame  to  pieces  he  would  surely  rise  from  the  grave 
and  defend  himself.  The  inspiring  events  of  1830  which  had  so 
quickened  Belgian  national  feeling  found  ready  response  in 
Wiertz.  Political  revolution  he  firmly  believed  should  be  fol- 
lowed by  artistic  revolution.  In  an  open  letter  to  the  Minister 
of  the  Interior  in  which  he  offered  to  the  State  a  picture  of  his 
own  on  condition  that  it  be  hung  beside  Rubens 's  ^  Descent  from 
the  Cross  '  in  the  cathedral  of  Antwerp,  he  says : — *  *  It  is  time 
we  threw  off  this  foreign  yoke ;  it  is  time  we  had  confidence  in 
our  native  forces.  Let  us  cease  to  believe  with  the  French  that 
M.  Delacroix  is  a  greater  man  than  Rubens,  and  that  M.  Decamps 

[34] 


ANTOINE    WIERTZ 

is  a  worthy  rival  of  Raphael.  It  is  time,  in  short,  for  our  Bel- 
gian artists  to  sing  their  Marseillaise! ''  And  yet  all  the  while 
this  resplendent  prophet  was  crying  aloud  to  the  world  in  lofty 
tones,  all  the  while  he  was  crowding  his  vast  canvases  with  dis- 
traught and  pleading  conceptions,  he  was  enduring  the  most 
dire  poverty  and  neglect.  He  painted  as  always  for  posterity, 
refusing  to  part  with  any  picture  of  importance,  a  foreign  prince 
once  vainly  offering  an  iromense  sum  for  the  ^  Triumph  of 
Christ.'  It  was  often  with  him  a  case  of  *'  bread  or  lead,'' 
though  somehow  just  enough  bread  always  came  to  save  him 
from  that  oblivion  which  he  dreaded  above  all  else.  The  image 
of  death  haunted  him  with  increasing  vividness  as  the  years 
slipped  by,  not  as  something  to  be  feared  in  itself,  but  as  the 
messenger  who  might  summon  him  hence  before  glory  should 
be  definitely  assured. 

Under  his  explicit  instructions  and  in  exact  replica  of  the 
ruined  temple  of  Neptune  at  Paestum  the  State  agreed  to  erect 
for  him  a  permanent  studio  situated  near  the  Pare  Leopold  and 
not  far  from  the  Garde  du  Luxembourg.  The  building  is  to-day 
surrounded  by  the  melancholy  charm  of  a  small,  neglected  gar- 
den, and  though  gloomy,  is  reposeful  in  aspect,  somewhat  sug- 
gesting a  mausoleum.  About  the  massive  columns,  over  the 
broken  pediment,  and  along  the  rough  walls  have  for  years 
twined  masses  of  creeper  and  ivy,  now  green,  now  purple  or 
crimson.  Though  certain  exterior  features  have  altered,  within 
the  place  remains  much  the  same  as  during  the  painter's  life- 
time. It  is  a  pictorial  pandemonium,  a  Vatican  of  eccentricity. 
On  the  walls  rages  a  cyclopean  conflict  between  good  and  evil, 
between  beauty  and  horror.  The  majestic  and  the  trivial  are 
grouped  side  by  side  just  as  they  burst  from  their  creator's 
disordered,  incongruous  fancy.  Visions  of  seething,  relentless 
power  are  offset  by  cheap  devices  and  panoptical  tricks  unworthy 
of  the  rudimentary  imagination  of  a  child.    Sentiment  of  the 

[35] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

sugary,  Bouguereau  brand  is  succeeded  by  dramatic  vivisections 
and  insistent  diablerie  from  which  the  most  callous  visitor 
shrinks  in  loathing  and  disgust.  All  periods  from  the  classic 
to  the  ultra  modern  and  morbid,  all  episodes  from  the  *  Educa- 
tion of  the  Virgin  '  to  the  *  Romance  Reader  '  throng  this  lurid 
graphic  cosmos.  Apart  from  the  pictures  he  had  previously 
painted  it  took  the  artist  just  fifteen  years  to  fill  the  remaining 
space  at  his  disposal.  A  portion  of  the  time  was  passed  in  writ- 
ing his  *  Flemish  School  of  Painting  '  and  numerous  brochures, 
pamphlets,  and  tractates  as  well  as  in  modelling,  for  sculpture 
was  also  one  of  his  passions.  During  many  anxious,  baffling 
months  he  devoted  his  energies  to  the  study  of  chemistry  with  a 
view  to  perfecting  his  *^  peinture  mate,"  a  combination  of  fresco 
and  oil  painting  supposedly  having  more  fluency  of  handling 
than  the  former  and  none  of  the  latter 's  often  irritating  re- 
flective quality.  It  was  of  course  necessary  for  him  to  continue 
fabricating  portraits  **  pour  la  soupe,"  as  he  would  say,  and 
during  less  exalted  moments  he  perpetrated  various  *'  petites 
bamboches,"  or  serio-comic  platitudes  without  interest  or  dis- 
tinction. He  insisted  upon  living  a  rigidly  isolated  existence, 
seldom  venturing  out,  though  adjoining  his  studio  he  devised 
a  miniature  **  jardin  geographique,"  in  which,  arrayed  in  long 
black  tunic,  big  Rubens  hat,  and  gaiters,  he  used  to  promenade, 
fancying  himself  in  different  parts  of  the  universe.  He  laboured 
ceaselessly,  it  being  his  hope  some  day  to  enlarge  the  museum  to 
many  times  its  actual  size  and  paint  a  continuous  panorama  of 
civilization,  of  which  the  portion  already  completed  was  but  the 
preface.  Yet  this  grandiose  dream  was  not  to  be  realized. 
Death,  who  had  long  since  gazed  fixedly  upon  him  from  the  walls 
of  his  narrow  Antwerp  mansard,  at  last  claimed  him  for  that 
dim  kingdom  which  is  all  dreams,  all  phantoms. 

He  suffered  intolerably  from  neuralgia,  and  moreover  his 
chemical  researches  had  undermined  an  otherwise  robust  con- 

[36] 


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ANTOINE    WIERTZ 

stitution.  Though  ill  but  a  few  days  he  died  in  fearful  agony 
from  gangrene  shortly  after  ten  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  18 
June  1865,  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  battle  of  Waterloo. 
Even  as  the  mortal  chill  was  creeping  over  him  he  moaned  fran- 
tically "  I  am  burning!  burning!  ''  At  the  bedside  had  gath- 
ered Dr.  Watteau,  Louis  Labarre,  his  lifelong  friend  and 
champion,  Mme.  Sebert,  and  the  eldest  son  of  the  good  boatman, 
Galain  Disiere.  It  was  a  soft,  magical  summer  night.  Overhead 
'swung  a  silvery  moon  and  from  the  near-by  gardens  were  wafted 
the  strains  of  a  waltz.  He  grew  calmer  after  awhile  and  spoke 
of  Socrates 's  belief  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  then, 
realizing  that  his  time  was  at  hand,  fought  off  the  inevitable 
moment  with  agonizing  fortitude.  Just  before  the  end  he  raised 
himself  upon  the  pillow  and  cried :  "  Oh  what  glorious  horizons ! 
What  beautiful,  tender  countenances!  how  sad  they  are;  they 
weep  because  they  love  me  so.  Quick!  My  brushes!  My 
palette!  What  a  picture  I  shall  paint!  I  shall  vanquish 
Raphael!  '^  Then,  speechless,  he  raised  his  hand  and  with  his 
finger  traced  imaginary  outlines  in  the  air,  sinking  back  with 
an  inexpressible  sob  of  regret.  They  buried  him  temporarily 
in  the  cemetery  of  Ixelles,  conducting  the  heart  to  his  native 
town  of  Dinant  to  repose  in  an  urn  in  the  H6tel-de-Ville,  where, 
years  before,  he  had  been  proclaimed  the  godson  of  Rubens,  the 
saviour  of  the  art  of  his  country. 

'  It  is  useless  to  pretend  that  the  work  of  Antoine  Wiertz 
possesses  any  special  aesthetic  value  or  significance.  He  occu- 
pies a  decidedly  rickety  seat  in  the  Pantheon  of  the  masters. 
He  entered  not  by  day,  between  wide,  lofty  portals,  but  on  a 
stormy  night  through  the  back  door  and  up  dingy,  crooked  stairs. 
Though  at  the  outset  he  may  have  had  some  hint  of  the  plastic 
fervour  of  Michelangelo,  some  gleam  of  the  chromatic  f ulgor  of 
his  revered  Rubens,  such  gifts  were  quickly  engulfed  in  a  bound- 
less ocean  of  personal  vanity,  and  vaunting,  arrogant  emula- 

[37] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

tion.  A  flash  of  the  spiritual  evocation  of  Blake  here  and  there 
shines  forth  only  to  be  rendered  dull  and  lustreless  by  the  heavy 
pomposity  of  Haydon.  The  man  came  too  late  upon  the  scene. 
He  stirred  up  the  dust  of  giants  long  since  departed.  He  sum- 
moned from  the  spacious,  heroic  past  stalwart  figures  who 
merely  mocked  him  and  glided  back  into  the  abyss  of  eternity. 
At  no  time  does  he  appear  to  have  possessed  a  clear  perception 
of  reality.  His  dreams  early  began  to  dethrone  thought^  and 
finally  reason.  He  was  utterly  lacking  in  all  sense  of  relation 
or  proportion.  Size  was  to  him  synonymous  with  greatness. 
His  art  is  extensive  rather  than  intensive.  The  fundamental 
defect  of  his  nature  seems  to  have  been  a  disastrous  form  of 
egomania.  He  was  continually  substituting  ambition  for  ac- 
complishment ;  he  was  forever  confounding  glory  and  self-glori- 
fication. Not  the  least  of  his  shortcomings  is  that  he  was  a  per- 
petual borrower.  His  special  divinities  he  often  placed  under 
contribution,  and,  still  unsatisfied,  he  did  not  scruple  to  look 
elsewhere.  Upon  ^  Happy  Times  '  has  settled  the  Hellenic 
quietude  of  Poussin.  Back  of  ^  Two  Young  Women  or  the 
Beautiful  Rosine  '  looms  the  eloquent  and  occasionally  volup- 
tuous fantasy  of  Delacroix.  Each  stage  of  his  development  is 
reflected  in  these  violent,  abortive  productions.  In  *  Patroclus  * 
he  challenges  the  universe ;  the  *  Revolt  of  Hell '  depicts  his  own 
revolt  against  those  in  power,  and  in  the  *  Triumph  of  Christ ' 
are  mirrored  the  few  brief  moments  of  peace  he  was  ever  to 
experience.  Nevertheless  this  art  is  not  only  typical  of  the  man 
himself,  but  in  a  distorted  way  of  the  nation  as  well.  While 
individual,  this  turbulence,  this  morbid  unrest,  were  also  gen- 
eral. Other  of  Wiertz's  contemporaries  thought  and  felt  much 
as  he,  and  numerous  Belgian  artists  both  past  and  present  have 
fallen  under  the  same  spell.  There  is  something  of  Wiertz  in 
Laermans,  in  the  pallid  figments  of  Khnopff,  and  the  sardonic 
demons  of  Felicien  Rops,  while  young  Henry  de  Oroux  is  clearly 

[38] 


ANTOINE    WIERTZ 

his  artistic  grandcMld.  Above  and  before  tbem  all,  however, 
towers  the  mighty,  fecund  genius  who  has  given  the  world  that 
series  of  *  Last  Judgments  '  and  cataclysmic  *  Revolts  '  now  in 
the  Munich  Pinakothek.  More  than  anyone  else  Wiertz  resem- 
bles Rubens — a  Rubens  bereft  of  health,  bereft  of  mind. 

It  is  in  the  last  phase  of  his  activity  that  Wiertz  exhibits 
most  sympathy  with  the  particular  tendencies  of  his  race  and 
his  time.  While  in  his  classic  and  biblical  subjects  he  seldom 
speaks  with  his  own  voice,  in  a  series  of  crudely  powerful  social 
studies  he  strikes  a  far  deeper  note.  *  Orphans,'  *  Premature 
Burial,*  *  Hunger,  Madness,  and  Crime,'  *  The  Last  Cannon,' 
and  *  Thoughts  and  Visions  of  a  Severed  Head,'  each  preaches 
a  sermon  with  but  scant  attempt  at  disguising  the  text,  one  plead- 
ing for  charity,  one  for  cremation,  one  against  poverty,  one 
against  war,  and  another  against  capital  punishment.  He  was 
ever  haunted  by  vague  souvenirs  of  the  days  when  the  armies 
of  the  Republic  and  the  Empire  so  seared  and  scarred  the  face 
of  Europe,  and  in  a  *  Scene  in  Hell '  does  not  hesitate  to  depict 
a  certain  familiar  figure  with  long  cloak,  cocked  hat,  and  folded 
arms  standing  unmoved  amid  livid  flames,  whilst  about  him 
surges  an  infuriated,  lamenting  crowd  of  widows  and  orphans, 
bearing  in  upraised  hands  the  dismembered  remains  of  their 
slaughtered  loved  ones.  In  these  and  similar  episodes  Wiertz 
proves  himself  a  true  son  of  democracy  and  humanitarianism, 
as  well  as  one  of  the  first  artists  to  treat  modem  themes  on  an 
imposing  scale.  It  is  obvious  that  more  restraint  and  less  crapu- 
lous horror,  less  of  the  stench  of  the  charnel  house  would  have 
heightened  the  efficacy  of  these  appeals,  and  yet  at  times  the 
man's  brain  seemed  itself  a  veritable  morgue.  To  the  last 
Wiertz  fancied  himself  a  soldier  of  advanced  thought,  a  ^^  chas- 
seur d'idees."  One  of  his  favourite  projects  was  the  establish- 
ment of  a  series  of  exact  correspondences  between  the  various 
arts,  a  theory  to  which  Goethe  and  others  had  already  given  no 

[39] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

little  consideration.  In  distorted  measure  lie  possessed  the  mind 
of  a  philosopher,  the  imagination  of  a  poet,  and  the  fervour  of 
a  patriot.  Endowed  with  acute  organic  susceptibility  he  ap- 
peared destined  from  the  first  for  martyrdom.  He  was  born, 
and  persisted  in  continuing,  tragically  out  of  harmony  with  the 
world  about  him.  He  lived  the  life  of  a  lost  Titan,  always  alone, 
always  harassed.  His  unflinching  devotion  to  his  career  and 
his  austere  vows  of  poverty  and  celibacy — vows  which  were 
never  forsworn — did  not,  in  the  end,  suffice  to  constitute  him 
one  of  the  gods  or  redeemers  of  art.  Through  reasons  beyond 
control  of  his  troubled  spirit  he  could  not  remain  upon  the 
heights.  He  descended  perforce  from  Olympus  into  the  re- 
cesses of  dark  Avernus. 


[40] 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  WATTS 


Permission  of  Frederick  Hollyer 


GEORGE    FREDERICK    WATTS 

Portrait  of  the  artist  painted  by  himself 

\_Possession  of  Lord  Ilchester,  Holland  House,  London^ 


GEORGE  EREDERICK  WATTS 


LONGr  since,  a  youth  of  eighteen  with  sensitive  features,  a 
brow  crowned  by  dark  curls,  and  eyes  that  spoke  of  high 
enthusiasms  dreamed  an  exalted,  resplendent  dream. 
He  dreamed  of  a  gleaming  Temple  of  Life  with  vast  corridors 
and  stately  chambers.  The  temple  was  built  of  marble  and  its 
walls  were  covered  with  frescoes  depicting  in  epic  sequence  the 
august  mysteries  of  birth,  of  life,  and  of  death.  Grouped  about 
were  statues  giving  form  to  those  ideas  better  suited  to  plastic 
expression.  Each  crisis  in  the  upward  struggle  of  the  soul  and 
the  surge  of  each  elemental  passion  there  found  fitting  sem- 
blance. The  themes  were  treated  in  allegorical  vein  and  in  terms 
which  would  appeal  to  mankind  for  all  time.  That  which  is,  and 
that  which  is  not,  that  which  has  been,  and  that  which  can  never 
be — the  entire  pageant  of  hope,  and  effort,  and  aspiration  was 
unfolded  in  symbolic  beauty  and  significance.  Inevitably  this 
fervid,  soaring  conception  was  never  realized,  for  the  cosmic 
history  of  humanity  can  hardly  be  written  by  a  single  individual. 
Only  a  little  wall-space  has  been  covered,  only  a  few  bits  of 
statuary  have  been  put  in  place,  a  few  faces  limned  with  un- 
faltering serenity,  yet  enough  exists  to  witness  the  depth  and 
vitality  of  that  early  revelation.  Though  feeble  of  body  the 
dreamer  remained  ardent  in  endeavour,  and  never  ceased  striv- 
ing for  the  fulfilment  of  his  youthful  vision.  Until  the  verj^  last 
he  continued  adding  to  a  task  which  from  the  first  must  perforce 
have  remained  unfinished. 

[43] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

Only  in  England  during  the  nineteenth  century  could  such 
a  phenomenon  as  George  Frederick  Watts  have  occurred.  He 
belongs  to  the  Victorian  age,  to  an  age  of  liberalism,  of  humani- 
tarian aims,  and  a  certain  broad,  didactic  habit  of  mind.  In 
artistic  as  well  as  political  progress  his  countrymen  had  been 
the  leaders  of  the  modern  movement.  A  century  and  more  be- 
fore the  place  de  la  Concorde  was  dyed  crimson,  England  had 
passed  through  a  corresponding  crisis  and  was  already  laying 
the  foundations  of  a  well  ordered  social  and  economic  system. 
The  same  results  were  achieved  as  in  France,  but  by  vastly  dif- 
ferent and  less  violent  means.  The  very  moral  stability  of  the 
people  made  it  impossible  for  them  to  drench  their  country  in 
blood  and  tears.  Moreover,  there  were  no  traditions  to  hamper 
development;  the  iron  hand  of  classicism  did  not  reach  across 
the  Channel.  Society  was  less  highly  crystallized  and  the  varied 
activities  of  the  human  mind  were  more  natural,  more  healthy, 
and  more  spontaneous.  By  the  time  Watts  was  born  in  London 
on  23  February  1817,  the  intellectual  atmosphere  about  him  was 
clear  and  serene.  He  grew  to  manhood  amid  settled,  equable 
surroundings,  and  since  throughout  his  career  there  seemed  lit- 
tle to  do  beyond  improving  and  uplifting  existing  conditions,  it 
was  fitting  that  he  should  have  become  an  idealist.  In  common 
with  his  contemporaries  in  the  field  of  letters  or  of  science  he 
dedicated  his  gifts  to  the  cause  of  humanity.  For  close  upon 
ninety  years  he  gazed  at  life  with  the  eyes  of  the  spirit,  seeing 
only  that  which  the  spirit  saw,  recording  only  that  which  to  the 
spirit  seemed  worthy  of  record.  Though  this  steadfast  vision- 
ary often  turned  to  actuality  in  order  to  enforce  or  verify  an 
impression,  always,  with  him,  did  the  symbol  transcend  the  fact, 
always  did  the  unseen  shine  more  radiantly  than  the  seen. 
Fundamentally  moral,  it  was  the  impress  of  an  ethical  rather 
than  a  physical  beauty  which  he  sought  to  transcribe.  Since  art 
was  for  him  a  sacred  mission  rather  than  a  disturbing  riot  of  the 

[44] 


GEORGE    FREDERICK    WATTS 

senses,  that  which  he  strove  to  portray  was  the  austere  serenity 
or  the  purifying  anguish  of  the  soul.  In  depicting  what  he  con- 
ceived to  be  inspiring  and  eternal  truths  he  never  hesitated  to 
sublimate  colour  and  contour  as  well  as  passion  and  volition. 
While  his  colleagues  were  for  the  most  part  painters  only,  he 
was  both  painter  and  prophet.  His  work  was  everywhere 
illumined  by  imaginative  reason.  He  saw  in  all  things  the 
image  of  divinity.  God  was  for  him  the  world  and  the  world 
was  God. 

Almost  any  time  until  the  last  four  years  might  have  been 
seen  seated  before  the  fire  at  Little  Holland  House  in  his  fa- 
vourite red  plush  arm-chair  or  strolling  about  the  garden  of 
Limnerslease  in  skull-cap  and  workman's  blouse  this  venerable, 
benign  figure.  Those  who  knew  him  intimately  called  him '  *  The 
Signor, ' '  and  in  many  respects  his  patriarchal  appearance  sug- 
gested some  bygone  Venetian  senator.  To  certain  minds  he  was 
but  a  kindly,  dignified  echo  of  past  grandeur  and  faded  glory. 
There  seemed,  it  is  true,  a  pathetic  incongruity  between  the  out- 
ward frailty  of  the  man  and  his  unquenchable  earnestness  of 
purpose.  Furthermore,  he  was  the  ceaseless  victim  of  doubt  and 
mistrust.  He  habitually  imderrated  his  powers  and  often  re- 
ferred to  himself  as  *^  the  poorest  of  poor  creatures.''  While 
it  is  obvious  that  he  must  often  have  been  taken  at  his  own  meas- 
ure, those  who  understood  George  Frederick  Watts  were  never 
deceived.  Though  his  greatness  was  not  at  first  apparent,  it  was 
nevertheless  indubitable.  A  delicate,  sickly  child  and  a  man 
who  suffered  throughout  life,  he  still  managed  to  keep  burning 
the  flame  of  high  hope  and  far  reaching  ambition.  Through 
infinite  care  he  maintained  a  finely  adjusted  equilibrium  of 
forces  which  lasted  until  the  end.  With  unflinching  persistence 
he  outlived  long  periods  of  indifference  and  obscurity,  drifting 
at  length  into  the  serenity  of  general  recognition  and  accept- 
ance.   From  the  deepening  twilight  of  the  heroic  age  of  art 

[45] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

looms  this  solitary  being.  In  pious  ecstasy  he  recalls  the  Hebrew 
seers ;  for  tragic  awe  he  may  be  likened  to  Aeschylus.  In  devo- 
tion to  form  he  suggests  Phidias,  and  in  tone  the  richness  of 
the  Renaissance.  While  he  possessed  none  of  these  qualities  in 
generous  measure,  each  was  in  some  degree  his  legacy,  and  each 
in  part  transfused  every  canvas,  every  bit  of  bronze  or  marble 
he  has  left  behind. 

In  the  truest  sense  of  the  phrase  this  meek  yet  mighty  spirit 
seemed  to  inherit  the  earth.  His  majestic  roll  of  years  gave  him 
ample  perspective,  his  open,  inquiring  mind  moved  freely  among 
the  varied  works  of  God  and  man,  and  his  vision  embraced  all 
periods  and  all  epochs  from  the  awakening  possibilities  of  crea- 
tion to  the  clouded  hour  of  our  own  day  and  generation.  Beyond 
everything  he  was  a  supreme  pictorial  genius.  Even  when  he 
failed,  as  he  often  did,  to  clothe  his  ideas  in  finite  guise,  the 
effort  exacts  attention  and  respect,  for  the  man's  calibre  is  also 
manifest  in  his  groping,  incomplete  gestures.  He  was  essen- 
tially a  creator.  Whatever  he  touched  sprang  into  predestined 
form  and  colour.  Out  of  chaos  he  made  a  vast  panorama  of 
primitive  potentialities;  he  retold  with  new  depth  and  preg- 
nance  Greek  legend  and  Arthurian  romance,  and  over  the 
troubled  destiny  of  mankind  shed  a  flood  of  consoling  light. 
Above  all  he  was  simple  and  elemental.  The  sea,  the  sky,  the 
gleam  of  flesh,  and  the  far  stars  were  the  alphabet  of  his  art. 
From  the  primal  dust  and  wind,  from  the  diffused  radiance  of 
the  first  sunrise  he  fashioned  creatures  tender  and  ethereal, 
prophetic  and  courageous.  Although  the  art  of  George  Fred- 
erick Watts  gathers  under  her  protecting  wings  so  many  of  the 
earth's  children  and  the  children  of  the  brain,  there  is  no  lack 
of  unity,  or  of  community,  in  anything  he  painted  or  modelled. 
A  single  thought  animates  his  entire  graphic  cosmos.  His  mes- 
sage is  the  message  of  universal  brotherhood  and  universal 
peace.    Leaving  to  divers  youngsters  the  sterile  doctrine  of  art 

[46] 


Permission  of  Frederick  Holh/er 


ORPHEUS    AND    EURYDICE 
By  George  Frederick  Watts 
[Possession  of  Mrs.  Beers,  London'] 


GEORGE    FEEDERICK    WATTS 

for  art's  sake,  he  boldly  proclaimed  that  beauty  was  the  heritage 
of  the  many,  not  the  property  of  the  esoteric  few.  Art,  he  held, 
should  in  her  highest  manifestations  be  consciously  utilitarian, 
should  be  a  medium  for  the  transmission  of  ennobling  ideas. 
**  A  picture  without  an  idea,''  he  said,  **  is  like  a  face  without 
eyes."  He  went  still  further.  "  A  great  picture,"  he  main- 
tained, *^  must  be  ethical — didactic,  if  you  like,  but  certainly 
ethical.  Humanity  has  created  art,  as  it  has  created  tools  and 
weapons,  for  its  own  advancement,  for  its  own  help,  for  its  own 
comfort."  Had  he  possessed  a  mind  less  clear  and  logical,  and 
a  less  exacting  aesthetic  conscience,  it  is  easy  to  see  how  this 
evangelist  in  paint  must  have  encountered  complete  shipwreck. 
Yet  that  same  gift  of  balance  which  so  long  held  body  and  soul 
together  also  kept  in  sufficient  accord  the  thought  and  its  ex- 
pression. However  instinct  these  canvases  are  with  mental  or 
moral  purport,  they  but  seldom  fail  to  reveal  a  compensating 
external  loveliness.  Spirit  and  sense  have  here  been  strangely, 
almost  mystically,  married. 

It  is  a  frequent  contention  that  the  art  of  Watts  is  literary, 
meaning,  presumably,  that  it  contains  elements  which  properly 
belong  to  the  domain  of  letters.  Few  judgments  could  be  more 
superficial  or  inadequate.  The  conceptions  that  took  shape 
under  the  caressing  stress  of  his  brush  or  chisel  are  not  the  ex- 
clusive property  of  any  sect  or  coterie;  they  are  the  common 
legacy  of  all  men  and  all  ages.  They  are  those  fundamental 
verities  which  have  perplexed  or  inspired  humanity  from  the 
beginning  and  will  continue  to  do  so  until  the  end.  They  occupy 
alike  the  painter  and  the  poet,  the  theologue  and  the  man  of 
science,  the  sybarite  and  the  beggar  by  the  roadside.  In  scarcely 
a  single  instance  has  Watts  repeated  either  in  substance  or  in 
form  that  which  had  been  said  before.  What  he  did  was  to  take 
certain  tjrpical  themes  and  recast  them  in  a  language  of  his  own. 
When  at  his  best  he  embodied  in  splendid,  sweeping  lines  and 

[47] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

solemn,  glowing  colours  the  eternal  aspiration  and  the  eternal 
heart-hunger  of  the  human  race,  the  joy  of  service  and  the  pain 
of  those  who,  having  great  possessions,  depart  in  sorrow.  It 
was  no  narrow  view  that  he  took  of  his  mission.  *  *  Art, ' '  he  held, 
*^  embraces  the  whole  of  those  conditions  which  are  to  be  repre- 
sented to  the  mind  through  the  medium  of  the  eye.''  Himself  a 
rigorous,  elemental  man  he  gave  to  certain  of  these  truths  a 
clarity  and  a  structural  simplicity  which  made  them  universal 
in  application  and  appeal.  When  he  speaks  in  his  rightful  voice 
it  is  impossible  to  remain  deaf  to  the  message  of  Watts.  Full 
of  subdued  rhythmic  vibrancy,  his  canvases  seem  like  pictorial 
anthems.  One  and  all  they  chant  the  Gloria  in  Excelsis  of  life 
and  art. 

While  he  acquired  much  from  without,  while  he  took  glad- 
ness from  the  vernal  freshness  of  spring,  or  tinged  his  palette 
with  the  burning  glow  of  the  dying  year ;  while  he  borrowed  the 
veiled  whiteness  of  the  pearl  and  the  pink  of  the  nautilus,  the 
drifting  vapours  of  the  river  and  the  iris  of  the  rainbow,  Watts 's 
chief  storehouse  lay  within.  It  must  not  be  assumed  that  this 
man  with  his  imaginative  fervour,  with  that  power  of  recreation 
so  doubly  his,  represents  a  wholly  British  endowment.  The 
keynote  to  his  character  and  his  achievement  lies  in  the  fact 
that  he  was  a  Celt,  not  a  Saxon.  His  father  was  of  Welsh  ex- 
traction, and  from  him  doubtless  came  the  sustained  poetic  im- 
pulse, the  kiss  of  fire,  and  the  benediction  of  tears,  that  suffuse 
all  Watts  touched.  Into  his  landscapes  stole  unconsciously  that 
pale  light  which  gleams  behind  the  mist-wrapped  hills  of  Wales. 
Imbued  with  all  the  wistful  yearning  of  his  race,  and  with  an 
abiding  sense  of  the  futility  of  earthly  things,  he  managed  to 
establish  a  definite  and  fruitful  relation  between  the  past  and 
the  present.  Musing  in  his  peaceful  Surrey  home  his  fancy 
travelled  to  vague,  dim  times,  to  dark  forests  and  the  sea  crash- 
ing on  a  lonely  coast.    At  nightfall  as  he  moved  about  the  gar- 

[48] 


GEORGE    FREDERICK    WATTS 

den,  wMte-bearded  and  clad  in  flowing  blouse,  lie  seemed  almost 
an  ancient  Druid  watching  the  flame  from  some  rude  pyre  moimt 
skyward  in  slender,  fitful  spirals.  And  out  of  this  realm  half 
creative  and  half  reminiscent  emerged  at  intervals  stalwart  men 
and  ardent,  heroic  women.  ^  Britomart '  and  ^  Uldra,'  ^  Una  ' 
and  ^  Brynhildr,'  each  came  to  him  awakening  echoes  of  an  ear- 
lier, more  mystical  existence.  The  trace  of  the  Celt  was  seldom 
absent.  ^  Eve  Repentant '  might  have  been  a  distraught  Isolde, 
and  the  broken  lyre  in  the  tremulous  fingers  of  *  Hope  '  a  harp 
once  belonging  to  some  wandering  bard.  While  several  of  his 
inspirations  were  superficially  Spenserian,  in  point  of  fact  they 
went  still  further  back — back,  indeed,  to  days  before  those  rest- 
less seekers  pushed  westward,  clinging,  finally,  to  the  last  fringes 
of  land  facing  the  Atlantic.  There  is  something  not  only  Celtic 
but  Asiatic  in  the  art  of  Watts.  It  is  Oriental  sjrmbolism  seen 
through  the  grey  fogs  of  Britain. 

Every  episode  in  a  career  inwardly  rich  though  outwardly 
placid  helped  Watts  to  formulate  his  cherished  conceptions. 
The  f  oiu*  years  passed  in  Florence  under  the  patronage  of  Lord 
and  Lady  Holland,  and  the  months  spent  among  the  islands  of 
the  Aegean  or  the  plains  of  Asia  Minor  with  the  Newton  expedi- 
tion, added  warmth  and  definition  to  his  maturing  vision.  The 
hours  consumed  while  studying  the  Elgin  Marbles  in  the  British 
Museum  likewise  contributed  their  particular  quota.  A  student 
at  the  Academy  Schools  for  but  a  few  weeks,  and  a  desultory 
pupil  of  the  sculptor,  Behnes,  Watts  was  without  systematic 
training.  ^*  I  never  had  any  master  save  Phidias,"  he  often 
said,  and  this  was  literally  true.  Victorian  in  its  breadth  and 
philanthropy,  the  art  of  Watts  is  eclectic,  for  he  wandered  over 
a  wide  field  in  his  endeavour  to  restore  painting  to  her  early 
grandeur  and  prestige.  In  a  measure  his  sense  of  form  is 
Florentine,  and  his  colour  Venetian,  yet  in  no  pronounced  degree 
is  either  the  case.    The  tombs  of  Halicamassus  and  the  tower  of 

[49] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

Giotto  loom  vaguely,  though  only  vaguely,  against  his  varied 
graphic  background.  While  there  are  traces  of  the  sweep  of 
the  Panathenaic  procession,  or  the  subdued  glow  of  Giorgione, 
everywhere  can  be  seen  the  resolute  desire  to  speak  an  inde- 
pendent aesthetic  language.  So  strongly  did  the  creative  im- 
pulse surge  within  that  he  was  incapable  of  making  copies  after 
the  Italian  masters  he  so  revered.  Though  Titian,  Tintoretto, 
and  especially  Orcagna  meant  much  to  him  it  was  only  in  a 
general  way.  He  was  above  all  a  painter  of  processes,  one  who 
recorded  the  ever  changing  vesture  of  outward  things,  one  who 
mirrored  the  mind's  ceaseless  inquietude.  To  him  nothing  was 
explicit,  nothing  final;  decay  followed  fast  upon  growth  and 
death  was  succeeded  by  joyous  rebirth.  A  whole  cycle  of  muta- 
tions both  visible  and  invisible  was  continually  unfolding  itself 
before  him.  The  world  was  ever  new;  the  heart  of  man  ever 
young. 

The  painter-knight  who,  at  Lord  Holland's  mask  ball,  ar- 
rayed himself  in  a  suit  of  silver-black  armour,  and  whose  earnest 
countenance  is  here  framed  by  a  dark  casement  with,  beyond, 
glimpses  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  was  always  an  instinctive, 
searching  student  of  human  physiognomy.  When,  on  his  return 
from  Florence,  he  failed  in  his  efforts  to  revive  mural  painting 
on  an  heroic  scale,  he  turned  to  portraiture,  gradually  forming 
the  idea  of  leaving  to  the  nation  a  complete  gallery  of  the  poets, 
artists,  publicists,  and  statesmen  of  nineteenth-century  England. 
In  all  his  portraits  Watts  aimed  to  see  beneath  mere  accidents 
of  circumstance.  Each  interpretation  displays  a  humble  and 
passionate  integrity  of  purpose.  This  shrinking,  modest  man 
to  whom  money  was  naught  and  fame  almost  an  intrusion,  re- 
fused to  exhibit  himself  in  place  of  his  sitter.  He  declined  to 
pounce  with  a  cheap  show  of  analysis  upon  what  appeared  to 
be  a  dominant  emotion  or  a  characteristic  trait.  He  was  at  all 
times  content  to  remain  questing  and  expectant,  merging  his 

[50] 


permission  of  Frederick  HoUyer 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

By  George  Frederick  Watts 

[Watts  Picture  Gallery,  Compton  Lane,  Surrey] 


GEORGE    FREDERICK    WATTS 

own  identity  into  that  of  his  subject.  No  technical  bravado 
mars  the  simplicity  of  these  likenesses.  Serene,  pontifical  Ten- 
nyson, irate,  rebellious  Carlyle,  and  grandly  optimistic  Brown- 
ing look  out  of  canvases  that  are  devoid  of  any  striving  after 
points.  It  was  the  deeper  mystery  of  personality,  the  uncon- 
scious revelation  of  self  and  of  soul  which  Watts  strove  to  per- 
petuate. None  is  without  interest,  none  without  penetration. 
The  lyric  intensity  of  Swinburne,  the  blended  humour  and  sad- 
ness of  Leslie  Stephen,  and  the  brain  weariness  written  on  the 
brow  and  in  the  eyes  of  the  poet  of  ^  Obermann  '  are  the  acme 
of  synthetic  divination.  Obviously  these  portraits  are  transla- 
tions rather  than  transcriptions,  for  that  which  Watts  aimed 
to  achieve  was  something  higher  and  nobler  than  pyrotechnics 
in  paint  or  photogi'aphic  accuracy.  Taking  the  elements  of  the 
individual  before  him  he  recreated  upon  canvas  his  inner,  rather 
than  his  outer,  image,  retaining  those  qualities  which  alone  were 
essential  and  enduring.  He  remained  always  the  idealist.  He 
showed  with  gentle  forbearance  what  man  is,  and  with  quicken- 
ing enthusiasm  what  man  should  be. 

The  principle  Watts  applied  with  such  convincing  power  to 
the  delineation  of  his  fellow-workers  in  the  field  of  social  ad- 
vancement was  applied  alike  to  primal  fancy.  Mosaic  tradition, 
Cretan  myth,  or  medieval  story.  He  managed  to  revive  with 
a  magic  all  his  own  the  centuries-old  narratives  of  the  Genesis, 
the  Fall,  and  the  Flood.  To  the  grief  of  Ariadne  seated  on 
the  wooded  shores  of  Naxos  waiting  the  return  of  Theseus  he 
added  fresh  poignancy.  The  Orpheus  of  legend  is  less  tragic 
than  the  sweet  singer  who  here  clasps  in  his  arms  the  already 
lifeless  form  of  Eurydice,  and  it  is  not  simply  Diana,  but  the 
very  spirit  of  nocturnal  mystery  which  here  bends  to  kiss  the 
sleeping  shepherd  of  Latmos.  The  lines  of  Dante  carry  but  a 
faint  suggestion  of  the  listless,  burned-out  ecstasy  of  this  Paolo 
and  Francesca  circling  remorsefully  through  the  Inferno,  nor 

[51] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

has  poet  been  able  to  picture  a  knight  quite  like  Watts 's  Sir 
Galahad  standing  beside  his  cream-white  steed,  his  eyes  aglow 
with  mingled  rapture  and  resolye.  If  it  be  true  that  there  is  no 
beauty  without  some  strangeness,  it  is  equally  true  that  there 
is  no  beauty  without  a  certain  sadness,  and  both  elements  are 
ever  present  in  the  work  of  Watts.  A  delicate  veil  shrouds  each 
countenance,  an  indefinable  pathos  envelops  hill  and  valley, 
and  shadows  fall  aslant  the  path  of  peace.  Even  in  the  spring- 
time of  life  and  love,  flowers  droop  and  heads  are  bowed.  It  is 
not  that  these  beautiful,  sedate  compositions  breathe  hopeless- 
ness or  despair;  it  is  merely  that  they  teach  the  dual  lesson  of 
courage  and  compassion. 

Yet  the  real  ethical  and  aesthetic  import  of  Watts 's  message 
is  not  manifest  until  you  emerge  from  the  realm  of  fable  and 
romance  into  the  pale,  serene  atmosphere  of  abstract  thought. 
The  central  figure  in  this  drama  of  ideas  is  of  course  man.  As 
the  painter  himself  said:  **  The  noblest  symbol  is  the  human 
form,  and  the  human  form  can  express  all  the  virtues  of  life — 
love,  courage,  faith ;  and  all  the  tragedy  of  life — sin,  suffering, 
and  death."  Considering  the  manifest  difficulty  in  treating 
such  themes  it  is  remarkable  that  this  prophet  in  paint  did  not 
more  frequently  allow  moral  considerations  to  outweigh  his 
sense  of  form,  colour,  or  design,  for  with  him  the  ethical  purpose 
was  ever  uppermost.  In  point  of  fact,  however,  he  was  less 
didactic  than  he  imagined.  **  I  teach  great  truths,"  he  once 
remarked,  *^  but  I  do  not  dogmatize."  Or  again,  speaking  of 
the  public,  he  said:  *^  I  lead  them  to  the  church  door,  and  then 
they  can  go  in  and  see  God  in  their  own  way."  In  a  series  of 
visions  sometimes  inchoate  and  obscure,  sometimes  incomparably 
direct  and  uplifting,  he  thus  sought  to  embody  the  perennial 
enigmas  and  aspirations  of  humankind.  Although  in  essence 
they  are  deeply  philosophical  and  deeply  religious,  these  works 
are  unconditioned  by  creed  or  doctrine.    Basic  ideas  are  ex- 

[52] 


GEORGE    FREDERICK    WATTS 

pressed  in  the  broadest,  most  liberal  terms.  The  customary 
insignia  of  the  church  are  absent.  Cross,  crown,  and  bleeding 
heart  find  no  place  in  this  grandly  simple  imagery.  It  is  a  grey, 
somewhat  formless  region  where  there  are  no  firmly  postulated 
texts,  no  fanatical  sacrifices  to  faith.  Over  this  art  is  spread 
the  complex  pathos  of  modern  agnosticism.  His  pictures  show, 
as  Watts  himself  recognized,  humanity's  breaking  away  from 
theological  formulae  and  still  holding  true  to  the  law  of  its 
being — ^morality. 

Just  as  he  had  formerly  read  new  mystery  and  magic  into 
oft-told  tales,  so  Watts  gave  new  shape  to  certain  conceptions 
which  had  long  been  the  property  of  the  multitude.  Hope 
never  before  showed  such  resigned  and  unwearied  tenderness 
as  does  this  bowed  creature  clinging  to  the  bare  disk  of  the  world 
listening  to  the  music  of  a  solitary  string,  nor  was  Time  ever 
before  pictured  as  a  resolute  youth,  clear-eyed  and  firm  of  car- 
riage. The  man's  creative  impulse  seldom  flagged,  nor  was  he 
ever  satisfied  with  conventional  expedients.  With  steadfast 
gaze  this  calm  apostle  of  allegory  surveyed  the  universe  afresh 
and  in  the  seclusion  of  his  studio  redreamed  the  dreams  of  the 
ages.  The  most  moving  of  all  his  visitants  was  Death,  who 
appeared  before  him  not  in  the  guise  of  a  hideous,  leering  skull, 
but  as  a  majestic,  resistless  presence  clad  in  pearl-white,  her 
face  averted,  as  though  deploring  her  dread  errand.  Now  she 
carried  in  the  folds  of  her  robe  blossoms  plucked  but  yesterday ; 
now  she  crowned  the  brow  of  Innocence,  and  now  brushed 
aside  Love  who  sought  to  stay  her  hand  upon  the  flower- 
strewn  threshold  of  Life.  There  is  always  in  these  pictures 
a  suggestion  of  maternity  in  the  treatment  of  death.  It  was  not 
accidental,  but  intentional.  **  I  want,"  the  painter  said,  "  to 
destroy  the  notion  that  death  is  *  the  king  of  terrors.'  My  fa- 
vourite thought  recognizes  Death  as  the  kind  nurse  who  says: 
*  Now  then,  children,  you  must  go  to  bed,  and  wake  up  in  the 

[53] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

morning/  ''  On  another  occasion  lie  spoke  of  her  as  **  a  gracious 
Mother,  calling  her  children  home." 

Despite  the  cloud  shadows  that  flit  across  this  fair  land,  it 
is  always  springtime,  always  April,  in  the  art  of  Watts.  An 
inherent  primalism  clung  about  the  wondrous  old  man  even  to 
the  end.  Born  in  the  morning  of  the  year,  he  somehow  never 
lost  the  capacity  for  re-creation  and  the  response  to  new  life 
and  new  possibilities.  Until  the  very  last  he  was  fond  of  paint- 
ing such  subjects  as  *  Green  Summer,'  or  fair-tinted  *  Lillian  ' 
bearing  in  her  hands  a  basket  of  fresh-plucked  roses.  Particu- 
larly fond  of  the  golden  crocus,  he  seldom  failed  to  introduce 
into  his  paintings  an  appropriate  floral  symbolism.  And  like 
flowers  his  thoughts  themselves  would  grow  into  being,  unfold- 
ing gradually,  according  to  some  inner,  hidden  law,  from  bulb 
to  blossom.  Though  by  no  means  an  exact  or  painstaking  stu- 
dent of  natural  forms  his  spirit  was  ever  in  consonance  with 
nature's  meaning  and  nature's  moods.  His  sympathies  were 
attuned  to  the  world  and  all  that  throbbed  therein.  His  soul 
was  at  peace  with  God  and  man.  In  his  calm,  harmonious  way 
he  represented  the  great  oneness  of  the  universe. 

There  was  never,  in  the  daily  life  of  Watts,  any  conflict  be- 
tween aspiration  and  accomplishment.  The  ideals  enunciated 
in  his  art  were  upheld  by  his  actions.  He  was  not  one  who 
preached  charity  and  failed  to  put  his  hand  into  his  own  pocket. 
Year  after  year  he  gave  of  his  best  with  no  thought  of  reward. 
When  he  returned  from  Italy  convinced  of  the  immense  edu- 
cative value  of  mural  painting  he  offered  to  decorate  without 
charge  the  Hall  of  the  new  Euston  Station  only  to  have  his  pro- 
posal rejected  by  the  phlegmatic  directors  of  the  company. 
Aside  from  an  insignificant  legacy  he  never  had  a  penny  he  did 
not  earn,  and  yet  presented  canvas  after  canvas  to  the  nation. 
A  whole  succession  of  contemporary  likenesses  was  given  to  the 
National  Portrait  GaUery,  while  many  of  his  most  important 

[54] 


GEORGE    FREDERICK    WATTS 

allegorical  compositions  went  to  the  Tate  Gallery.  The  cartoon 
of  *  Sir  Galahad  '  he  gave  to  Eton  College  Chapel,  *  Love  and 
Death  *  to  the  city  of  Manchester,  *  Fata  Morgana  '  to  Leicester, 
a  version  of  *  Love  and  Life  '  to  America,  and  *  The  Happy 
Warrior  '  to  Munich.  Judging  by  the  price  offered  privately 
for  ^  Love  and  Death,'  which  was  five  thousand  pounds,  he 
might  have  made  large  simis,  yet  he  preferred  to  live  modestly, 
even  plainly,  with  barely  enough  for  his  meagre  needs.  Al- 
though evincing  generous  sympathy  for  the  artists  of  his  time, 
and  sharing  to  a  certain  degree  their  struggles  and  triumphs, 
he  never  allied  himself  with  any  particular  group  or  movement. 
A  Pre-Raphaelite  he  cannot  be  called,  and  the  only  possible  label 
which  may  be  given  one  so  remote  and  so  hieratic  is  that  of 
having  belonged  to  those  New  Idealists  who  have  offset  the 
rigours  of  naturalism  and  the  prismatic  conquests  of  the  Im- 
pressionists by  pouring  over  the  world  a  tender,  melting  beauty 
— a  beauty  which  is  of  the  spirit  rather  than  of  the  senses,  of 
the  mind  rather  than  the  eye.  Decade  after  decade  he  wrought 
in  silence  and  semi-obscurity,  and  it  was  not  until  he  had  reached 
the  age  of  fifty  that  he  was  made  a  member  of  the  Royal  Acad- 
emy. Yet  such  matters  concerned  him  little,  for  later  on,  when 
twice  offered  a  baronetcy,  he  each  time  declined,  caring  nothing 
for  worldly  distinction. 

Like  Michelangelo  this  humbler,  more  pacific  giant  of  the 
English  Renaissance  had  within  him  a  persistent  love  for  the 
round.  At  intervals  he  busied  himself  with  sculpture,  the  bust 
of  *  Clytie,'  the  statue  of  *  Hugo  Lupus  '  which  commands  the 
entrance  to  the  grounds  of  Eton  Hall,  and  the  heroic  equestrian 
entitled  ^  Physical  Energy  '  which  was  appropriately  designed 
to  stand  upon  the  heights  of  Matoppos  in  commemoration  of  the 
achievements  of  Cecil  Rhodes,  being  his  chief  contributions  to 
plastic  art.  For  many  years  he  lived  in  Little  Holland  House, 
Melbury  Road,  where  his  friends  often  gathered  to  see  his  work 

[55] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

and  listen  to  grave  dissertations  on  current  topics  or  delight  in 
his  playful,  almost  boyish,  banter.  He  used  to  wear  the  prover- 
bial crimson  skull-cap  and  blue  blouse,  and  when  animated  would 
move  his  head  sharply  from  side  to  side  making  short,  impatient 
sweeps  of  the  arm.  At  times,  though,  he  would  remain  seated 
for  days  the  prey  of  nervous  depression  or  a  curious  *'  brain 
sickness,''  as  he  called  it,  which  made  it  impossible  for  him  to 
visit  the  studio  wherein  were  gathered  so  many  canvases  com- 
pleted or  in  process.  A  Stoic  in  cast  of  mind,  he  was  a  Spartan 
in  his  tastes  and  habits.  He  never  smoked,  never  touched  alco- 
hol in  any  form,  and  ate  sparingly.  Avoiding  as  a  rule  public 
gatherings,  he  was  fond  of  strolling  about  the  streets  arrayed 
in  a  long  fur  coat.  And  every  night  for  years,  at  the  close  of  a 
hard  day's  work,  he  would  sit  down  to  a  supper  of  cold  pudding, 
milk,  and  barley  water. 

The  life  in  London  was  carried  out  in  brighter,  more  inspirit- 
ing colours  at  the  painter's  country  home  known  as  Limners- 
lease,  in  Surrey,  near  Guildford.  Guarded  by  tall  sentinel  firs 
the  modest,  vine-grown  house  looked  across  a  landscape  dotted 
with  white  cottages  set  among  smiling  fields.  In  his  younger 
days  Watts  was  a  capital  horseman  and  might  often  have  been 
seen  galloping  up  **  Hog's  Back  "  or  along  the  very  road  where 
Chaucer's  Pilgrims  used  to  wend  their  way  toward  the  shrine 
of  St.  Thomas  at  Canterbury.  Throughout  the  siunmer  and 
autumn  he  rose  every  morning  at  three  thirty,  worked  until 
seven,  when  he  had  his  bath  and  breakfast,  then  worked  until 
one,  and  again  from  three  until  six  or  after.  Unhurried,  undis- 
turbed, he  would  labour  at  different  periods  for  ten,  or  even 
twenty  years  upon  the  same  composition,  getting  closer  and 
closer  to  the  idea  which  he  sought  to  portray.  Though  his  tech- 
nique was  troubled  and  fumbling,  he  somehow  managed  to 
achieve  the  desired  results,  and  when  all  was  finished  would 
cover  the  canvas  with  a  film  of  white,  afterward  adding  fresh 

[56] 


Permission  of  Frederick  Hollyer 


LOVE    AND    LIFE 

By  George  Frederick  Watts 

[The  National  Gallery  of  British  Art,  London] 


GEORGE    FREDERICK    WATTS 

touches  of  colour  in  order  to  get  just  that  bloom  which  indeed 
is  the  bloom  of  eternal  youth.  A  few  of  his  pictures,  such  as  the 
fire-bathed  head  of  *  Brynhildr/  and  ^  Time,  Death,  and  Judg- 
ment '  came  to  him  as  complete  revelations,  but  for  the  most 
part  his  conceptions  were  evolved  slowly  and  painfully.  His 
art  is  not,  in  fact,  a  reproduction  of  that  which  is  without; 
it  is  a  representation  of  that  which  is  within.  It  is  that  most 
difficult  and  hazardous  of  all  aesthetic  tasks.  It  is  thought 
made  visible. 

Just  as  he  had  in  London  shed  about  him  loveliness  and 
benevolence,  so  here  in  the  open  there  grew  up  imder  his  eye 
numerous  tokens  of  charity  and  utility.  Together  with  Mrs. 
Watts  he  built  the  picturesque  Mortuary  Chapel  which  stands 
in  the  grove  near  his  house,  and  together  they  established,  under 
the  auspices  of  the  Home  Industries  Association,  a  flourishing 
pottery  at  Compton,  not  far  from  the  spot  where  Mrs.  Watts 
has  since  erected  a  Picture  Gallery  containing  as  many  of  her 
husband's  works  as  it  has  been  possible  to  collect.  And  this  Gal- 
lery, which  he  never  saw,  is  perhaps  the  nearest  approach  to  that 
Temple  of  Life  of  which  he  had  dreamed  so  long  and  ardently. 
As  time  went  on,  though  the  weight  of  years  bowed  that  slender 
frame,  his  spirit  never  faltered.  Shortly  before  the  end  he  re- 
marked, with  pathetic  heroism,  *'  I  think  aspiration  will  last  as 
long  as  there  is  consciousness."  He  was  in  fact  actually  work- 
ing on  the  huge  model  for  his  statue  of  '  Physical  Energy  ' 
when,  on  1  July  1904,  the  final  summons  came. 

Although  the  past  had  perhaps  always  clung  too  closely 
about  him,  and  though  he  was  not  fated  boldly  to  carry  the 
banner  of  art  into  new  territory,  he  nevertheless  achieved  that 
first  and  most  precious  of  all  victories — the  victory  over  self. 
Eager,  ruthless  oncomers  with  the  cruel  intolerance  of  youth 
were  soon  to  thrust  aside  his  hinnble  offering,  yet  the  lesson  of 
his  life  can  never  be  overlooked.    And  as  he  lay  there  restful 

[57] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

and  motionless  in  the  deepening  summer  twilight  it  seemed  as 
though,  like  his  own  *  Happy  Warrior/  his  brow  must  in  truth 
have  been  softly  kissed  by  one  of  those  same  beautiful,  tender 
beings  he  had  often  summoned  from  the  radiant  beyond. 

At  the  simple,  impressive  service  in  St.  PauPs  Cathedral 
which  was  attended  by  some  of  the  foremost  artists  and  states- 
men in  England,  they  played  a  Beethoven  funeral  march,  the 
archdeacon  reading  that  memorable  prayer  from  Ecclesiasticus 
beginning:  **  Let  us  now  praise  famous  men,  and  the  fathers 
that  begat  us.  Their  bodies  are  buried  in  peace  but  their  name 
liveth  for  evermore."  The  next  day  they  left  him  sleeping  on 
the  sunlit  hillside  he  loved  so  well,  gently  covered  with  lilies, 
the  white  and  slender  symbol  of  that  immortality  he  had  man- 
fully won. 


[58] 


ARNOLD  BOCKLIN 


ARNOLD    BOCKLIN 

Portrait  of  the  artist  painted  by  himself 

[The  National  Gallery,  Berlin] 


ARNOLD   BOCKLIN 


IT  is  a  significant  fact  that  despite  tlie  encroaclunents  of  sci- 
ence and  the  increasing  materialism  of  existence  the  Blue 
Flower  of  the  ideal  should  have  continued  to  flourish  upon 
the  earth.  Lofty  and  impersonal  with  Watts,  serene  and  Vir- 
gilian  with  Puvis  de  Chavannes,  and  dreamily  sumptuous  with 
Gustave  Moreau,  these  glimpses  of  regions  beyond  or  above  more 
than  held  their  own  beside  the  sturdy  reality  of  such  masters 
as  Menzel,  Courbet,  and  Liebermann.  By  a  logical  process  of 
development  that  which  in  England  was  detached  and  spiritual, 
and  in  France  was  vaguely  formal  and  classic,  became  in  Ger- 
many a  superb  apotheosis  of  native  strength  and  force.  The 
resistless  trinity  of  modem  Teutonic  symbolism  is  composed  of 
Richard  Wagner,  Friedrich  Nietzsche,  and  Arnold  Bocklin.  It 
is  they  who  have  swept  all  before  them,  they  who  have  routed 
prosaic  notions  of  equality  and  have  enthroned  that  disturbing 
and  aggressive  conception  known  as  the  Overman.  It  is  in  Ger- 
many alone  that  this  new  symbolism  obtains,  and  it  is  impossible 
not  to  realize  that  it  has  flowed  direct  from  the  ironic  outbursts 
of  Nietzsche,  the  symphonic  lava  stream  of  Wagner,  and  the 
glowing  colour  poems  of  Bocklin.  The  specific  product  of  a 
unified  country,  they  embody,  each  in  different  terms,  that  same 
Pangermanism  which  in  certain  quarters  is  to-day  considered 
so  inspiring,  and  in  others  so  menacing  a  world  factor.  While 
other  cults  are  losing  ground,  converts  are  still  flocking  to  this 
splendid,  turbulent  arena  of  fancy  and  of  fable.     Pale  with 

[61] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

Watts,  languid  and  exotic  with  Moreau,  the  flower  of  modern 
idealism  blossoms  with  unparalleled  luxuriance  amid  the  gar- 
dens and  meadows  where  the  art  of  Arnold  Bocklin  finds  its 
home.  More  than  any  of  his  colleagues  does  this  extraordinary 
being  represent  creative  imagination  in  its  fullest,  most  robust 
florescence. 

Scarcely  anything  could  have  been  more  arid  and  pedestrian 
than  German  art  during  the  early  half  of  the  century  just 
passed.  There  seems  scant  choice  between  the  flaccid  piety  of 
Overbeck,  Schadow,  and  the  Nazarenes,  and  the  congealed 
heroics  of  Cornelius  and  Schnorr.  The  plan  of  reviving  na- 
tional art  on  a  religious  basis,  like  the  irrational  return  to  medie- 
valism, ended  in  sterility.  Nazarenes  had  too  much  of  the  spir- 
itual and  too  little  of  the  temporal;  romanticists  too  many  of 
the  trappings  of  romance  and  too  small  a  spice  of  actuality. 
Neither  the  Passion  nor  the  Nibelungenlied  was  interpreted 
with  conviction.  The  Saviour  was  anaemic,  and  Siegfried  pre- 
posterous. By  the  mid-century  German  painting  had  dwindled 
into  an  affair  of  monks,  cloisters,  brigands,  cavaliers,  tearful 
sunsets,  and  operatic  crucifixions.  This  was  at  Diisseldorf .  In 
Munich  and  Berlin  had  sprung  into  vogue  under  foreign  influ- 
ence a  servile  rendering  of  rural  or  domestic  incident  devoid  of 
interest  or  illumination.  During  these  infertile  decades  there 
had  been  no  Delacroix,  no  Ingres,  and  no  grave  painters  of  wood 
and  field.  Kaulbach  and  Feuerbach  held  attention  for  a  space, 
and  Piloty,  whose  studio  dramas  had  been  borrowed  from  Dela- 
roche,  managed  to  cast  over  his  canvases  a  gleam  of  surface  rich- 
ness, yet  one  after  another  each  man  and  each  movement  failed 
to  produce  aught  that  was  important  or  progressive.  It  was 
not,  in  fact,  until  certain  of  the  later  men  began  journeying  to 
Paris  instead  of  to  Rome  that  the  situation  changed  for  the 
better,  though  even  then  the  true  redemption  had  to  come  from 
within.    Possibly  because  the  probation  was  so  long,  the  rise 

[62] 


ARNOLD    BOCKLIN 

of  the  present  school  proved  to  be  correspondingly  rapid. 
While  various  elements  contributed  their  quota,  the  impetus,  so 
sudden  and  so  manifest,  was  in  main  part  due  to  a  single  indi- 
vidual, a  man  who  stands  almost  alone  in  the  annals  of  art. 

Arnold  Bocklin  was  a  posthumous  expression  of  Teutonic 
romanticism.  He  flashed  forth  as  it  were  after  the  lights  had 
simmered  out  bringing  with  him  a  fruitfulness  hitherto  un- 
known and  a  personal  equipment  riper  than  any  since  the 
Eenaissance.  With  the  mild  exception  of  Schwind  he  had  no 
precursors  and  no  helpmates,  yet  by  the  overwhelming  vitality 
of  his  nature  he  recreated  the  art  of  his  country.  Quietly  and 
without  parade  he  accomplished  for  German  painting  what 
Goethe  had  striven  to  achieve  for  German  verse  and  what  Wag- 
ner was  endeavouring  to  attain  for  German  opera.  Through 
the  medium  of  an  exuberant  mentality  and  a  rich-set  palette  he 
revealed  to  Germans,  and  to  the  world,  the  Germanic  soul. 
While  in  a  measure  he  had  no  successors  he  fecundated  an  en- 
tire circle  of  men  who  have  since  left  their  traces  not  alone 
upon  art,  but  upon  literature  and  music  as  well.  The  sylvan 
brood  of  Hauptmann's  *  Sunken  Bell '  and  the  rhythmic  so- 
nority of  Huberts  *  Symphony  in  E  minor  '  are  as  direct  a 
tribute  to  Bocklin 's  genius  as  is  Hermann  Urban 's  solemn 
variant  on  ^  The  Island  of  Death.'  The  forceful  Stuck  and  the 
fatalistic  Klinger,  the  idyllic  Thoma  and  the  statuesque  linger, 
have  each  profited  by  him,  not  to  mention  Greiner,  Briick,  and 
his  own  favoured  pupils  such  as  Sandreuter,  Welti,  von  PidoU, 
and  Landsinger.  The  painters  of  Worpswede  and  Dachau  owe 
to  him  not  a  little  of  their  poetic  view  of  landscape,  while  the 
boldest  bits  in  the  Secessionist  exhibitions  of  Mimich,  Berlin, 
and  Vienna,  or  the  pages  of  Jugend  are  the  offshoots  of  his  over- 
powering personality. 

Born  in  Basle,  16  October  1827,  there  was  little  in  Bocklin 's 
surroundings  to  foster  an  artistic  career.    It  is  true  that  his 

[63] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

father,  who  was  a  struggling  silk  merchant,  had  been  moved 
to  name  his  three  sons  Werner,  Arnold,  and  Walther,  after 
Schiller's  *  Wilhelm  Tell,'  and  that  his  maternal  uncle  was  a 
house  decorator,  yet  when  the  boy  wished  to  devote  himself  to 
art  his  practical  parent  replied  that  there  were  already  "  enough 
hungry  painters  in  the  world."  He  meanwhile  attended  the 
local  Drawing  Academy  as  well  as  the  Gymnasium,  and  spent 
day  after  day  gazing  at  the  wondrous  collection  of  Holbeins  in 
the  dusky  Hall  of  the  University,  little  dreaming  that  they 
would  later  form,  with  his  own  works,  the  chief  treasures  of  the 
Basle  Museum.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  shadow  of  Holbein, 
Bocklin  might  never  have  become  a  painter,  for  it  is  impossible 
to  overestimate  the  influence  of  this  master  whose  sense  of  verity 
was  so  exact  and  who  showed  such  compelling  energy  in  his 
fantastic  and  macaberesque  conceptions.  The  boy  also  passed 
much  of  his  time  wandering  alone  in  the  open  among  the  valleys 
or  by  the  rushing  river,  and  never,  even  in  after  life,  did  he 
forget  the  spirit  of  Holbein  and  the  rugged  silhouette  of  his 
Rhenish  birthplace.  The  gradual  awakening  and  development 
of  Arnold  Bocklin 's  genius  forms  one  of  the  most  troubled  and 
inspiring  pages  in  the  history  of  art.  Possessing  typically 
Swiss  independence  and  love  of  liberty,  hardy  and  undaunted, 
he  gathered  momentum  with  each  year,  emerging  at  last  from 
darkness  into  light,  from  poverty  and  neglect  into  general 
recognition  and  renown.  Although  this  great,  primordial  man 
of  the  mountains  and  the  sea  lived  to  witness  his  triumph,  it 
was  not  because  he  was  more  fortunate  than  his  fellows,  but 
because  he  was  stronger  and  closer  to  nature  than  they.  Nothing 
ever  shook  his  purpose  or  caused  him  to  swerve  from  his  chosen 
path.  Heroic  of  feature  and  of  frame,  he  was  blessed  at  birth 
with  strength  enough  to  carry  himself  to  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
and  while  still  in  his  teens  began  that  odyssey  which  was  so  to 
enrich  his  soul,  each  halting  place  affording  new  substance  and 

[64] 


< 


ARNOLD    BOCKLIN 

new  beauty,  each  fortifying  and  intensifying  that  which  ap- 
peared to  be  an  ahnost  prenatal  capacity  for  vigorous  colour 
expression. 

Responding  to  the  pleadings  of  his  wife  and  friends,  who 
firmly  believed  in  the  lad's  talent,  the  elder  Bocklin  at  length 
consented  to  his  son's  departure  for  Diisseldorf,  where  he 
studied  some  two  years  imder  Hildebrand  and  Schirmer.    Find- 
ing the  vitiated  atmosphere  of  the  place  little  to  his  liking 
he  next  left  with  a  companion,  Rudolf  KoUer,  for  Brussels, 
Antwerp,  and,  after  a  short  interval  in  Geneva,  for  Paris. 
While  Schirmer  gave  him  a  fugitive  appreciation  of  landscape, 
and  the  Flemish  galleries  stimulated  his  love  of  line  and  kindled 
his  eye  for  tone,  that  which  most  impressed  the  young  Swiss 
were  the  bloody  and  stirring  scenes  he  witnessed  on  the  streets 
of  Paris  during  the  Revolution  of  1848.    Though  it  was  an  un- 
propitious  time  for  study,  art  was  by  no  means  neglected.    Poor 
beyond  belief  the  two  friends  took  a  single  room  in  the  rue  de 
Verneuil,  slept  in  one  bed,  and  drew  from  models  by  day  in  the 
studio  of  a  kindly  compatriot.    Invaluable  as  these  preliminary 
experiences  were,  it  was  not  until  Bocklin  returned  to  Basle; 
and  eventually  reached  Rome,  with  more  enthusiasm  than  cap- 
ital,  that  he  entered  upon  his  true  aesthetic  heritage.    In  Rome 
he  joined  the  circle  composed  of  Dreber,  Feuerbach,  Reinhold 
Begas,  and  the  writers  von  Scheffel  and  Paul  Heyse.    They  were 
eager,  anxious  days  for  one  of  the  supreme  colour  poets  of  the 
centiu-y.    Often  compelled  to  sleep  imder  the  star-dotted  sky 
for  want  of  a  roof  over  his  head  he  staved  off  actual  starvation 
by  painting  again  and  again  the  same  views  of  the  Coliseum 
and  the  Forum  for  the  picture  shops  of  the  Via  Condotti.    Un- 
deterred by  the  spectre  of  increased  responsibilities,  he  married, 
in  1853,  after  a  single  day's  acquaintance,  Angelina  Paseucci,  a 
luxuriantly  handsome  Trasteverina.    Though  there  were  in- 
numerable obstacles,  religious  and  other,  to  their  union,  the 

[65] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

impetuous  painter  overcame  them  all,  wimiing,  as  it  happened, 
a  noble  and  inspiring  life  partner.  Yet  his  success  as  an 
artist  was  the  reverse  of  encouraging,  the  first  picture  he  ex- 
hibited having  been  condemned  by  the  censor  to  be  flung  into 
the  street. 

This  particular  Roman  sojourn,  which  lasted  eight  years  in 
all,  proved  but  the  first  of  those  constant  oscillations  between 
north  and  south  which  marked  the  remainder  of  Bocklin's 
career.  Each  time  he  visited  Germany  or  Switzerland  his  art 
became  more  genial  and  robust.  Each  time  he  turned  toward 
Rome  or  Florence  it  acquired  that  depth,  stateliness,  and  auster- 
ity which  are  alone  the  gift  of  Italia,  the  foster-child,  the 
younger  sister,  indeed,  of  Hellas.  Arnold  Bocklin  was  able  to 
develop  a  specifically  racial  art  because  he  possessed  sufficient 
magic  to  impose  his  vision  upon  his  countrymen,  and  because 
that  vision  embodied  both  the  national  taste  for  myth  and  the 
national  love  of  antique  beauty.  The  paintings  of  Bocklin  are 
an  aftermath  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire,  the  idea  of  which 
had  haunted  the  Teutonic  mind  for  ages.  They  reflect  all  the 
ineffable  nostalgia  of  his  land  for  the  marble  statues,  cream- 
white  viUas,  fountains,  and  cypress  trees  of  Italy.  This  art  is 
but  another  version  of  that  Sehnsucht  for  the  South  which  had 
already  found  voice  in  the  ballads  of  Goethe,  the  prose  fancies 
of  Heine,  and  the  inspired  periods  of  Winckelmann.  Once 
again  it  was  the  German  viewing  Greece  through  Renaissance 
eyes.  The  special  form  which  Bocklin 's  appeal  assumed  in- 
volved a  reincarnation  imder  local  conditions  of  the  classic 
spirit.  He  early  realized  that  the  one  way  to  treat  such  themes 
was  to  infuse  them  with  modern  passion  and  modern  invention. 
Pan,  Diana,  Prometheus,  monsters  of  the  deep  and  grotesques 
of  the  forest,  were  given  new  semblance  and  new  vitality.  Not 
satisfied  with  existing  types  he  peopled  this  pagan  world  with 
creatures  of  his  own  making.    Nature  was  continually  suggest- 

[66] 


ARNOLD    BOCKLIN 

ing  to  this  vigorous,  primal  man  forms  half  bestial  and  half 
human.  Out  of  mountain  spring  or  surging  wave,  from  rocky- 
cavern  or  gnarled  tree  trunk,  issued  at  his  beck  the  strange 
children  of  the  great  Earth  Spirit.  In  essence  this  art  is  simply 
anthropomorphized  thought.  It  is  a  species  of  graphic  panthe- 
ism illustrating  the  kinship  of  man  and  nature,  a  conception 
common  to  all  elemental  minds.  It  was  Bocklin's  triumph  to 
have  refreshed  and  revitalized  art,  to  have,  in  a  sense,  led  human 
fancy  back  to  its  starting  point. 

While  romantic  in  temperament  Bocklin  avoided  the  routine 
faults  of  romanticism.  His  eye  for  form  was  individual  and 
his  colour  modem  in  its  chromatic  brilliancy.  Even  when  treat- 
ing classic  scenes  not  the  least  charm  of  these  stretches  of 
meadow  or  sky,  of  shore  or  wood,  is  the  anti-classic,  Dionysian 
vein  in  which  they  are  interpreted.  Pagan  Greece  often  fades 
before  Lutheran  Germany.  Bacchus  becomes  a  beer  drinking 
burgher  and  the  abundant  humour  of  Hans  Sachs  now  and  then 
illumines  the  features  of  some  grisly  centaur.  Always  painted 
in  a  single  key,  there  is  never  the  slightest  discord  between  mat- 
ter and  manner.  Each  canvas  is  a  unit,  the  animate  factors 
being  but  a  more  volatile  embodiment  of  the  inanimate.  By  a 
spontaneous,  instinctive  mental  process  Bocklin  was  able  to 
project  himself  backward  into  prehistoric  times.  He  never  ap- 
pears deliberately  to  have  fabricated  his  motives;  he  seems  to 
have  placed  upon  canvas  only  that  which  he  himself  had  wit- 
nessed. It  is  as  though  he  were  an  accomplice,  not  a  mere  spec- 
tator of  creation.  To  the  cherished  faculty  of  dealing  unfet- 
tered with  the  past  he  added  an  explicit,  detailed  observation  of 
the  present.  Though  he  turned  through  some  hidden  affinity 
toward  the  South,  the  traditional  ItaHanism  of  Poussin,  Claude, 
or  the  early  Corot  found  no  echo  or  equivalent  in  Bocklin's  art. 
With  no  sacrifice  of  ideality  he  gave  each  theme  a  personal, 
veridical  setting.    He  never  copied  nature,  yet  beautiful  and 

[67] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

accurate  botanical  and  geological  data  mark  each  outdoor  scene. 
By  means  of  a  localization  which  was  never  slavish  and  always 
replete  with  suggestion,  always  tempered  by  the  secret  spirit  of 
place,  he  succeeded  in  making  romance  real  and  reality  roman- 
tic. There  seems  to  lurk  in  these  pictures,  as  in  nature  her- 
self, some  hidden,  inexplicable  meaning.  More  than  any  of 
his  contemporaries  Bocklin  was  an  Inhaltskiinstler.  A  mys- 
terious, indefinable  purport  magnifies  a  hundredfold  the  actual 
beauty  or  solemnity  of  each  flowered  terrace,  each  castle  by 
the  sea. 

It  was  not  by  rapid  strides  but  through  a  long  process  of 
inner  germination  that  Arnold  Bocklin  attained  the  fullness  of 
his  power.  Like  nature  herself  he  grew  slowly  and  silently. 
Having  managed  to  make  a  few  sales  while  in  Rome,  chiefly  to 
friendly  compatriots,  he  decided  to  return  to  Basle  only  to  find 
his  art  received  with  open  derision  by  his  unappreciative  towns- 
folk. Discouraged  but  persevering,  he  accepted  a  commission 
to  decorate  the  dining  room  of  Consul  Wedekind's  house  in 
Hamburg,  but  here,  too,  disappointment  was  to  await  him. 
Despite  their  originality  and  imaginative  force,  his  patron  re- 
fused to  accept  the  series  of  frescoes  depicting  man's  relation 
to  the  elements,  and  it  was  only  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that 
the  painter  received  his  meagre  recompense  for  four  months* 
arduous  labour.  Munich  proved  his  next  destination,  and  it  was 
there,  after  a  tragic  prelude,  that  the  tide  at  last  turned  in  his 
favour.  Utterly  destitute  and  lying  ill  of  typhoid  fever,  to 
which  malady  one  of  his  children  had  succumbed,  he  sent  to  the 
Kunstverein  a  large  canvas  entitled  *  Pan  among  the  Reeds  ' 
which  was  highly  praised  and  subsequently  purchased  for  the 
Pinakothek.  In  Mimich  he  also  found  his  former  friend,  Paul 
Heyse,  and  through  his  good  offices  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Baron,  afterward  Count,  von  Schack  who  was  already  forming 
the  nucleus  of  the  now  famous  Schack  Gallery.    Although  the 

[68] 


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ARNOLD    BOCKLIN 

prices  von  Schack  paid  were  the  reverse  of  princely,  he  was  a 
loyal,  discerning  Maecenas,  and  did  much  for  the  art  of  his  day. 
Becoming  somewhat  better  known,  Bocklin  was  offered,  in  the 
autumn  of  1860,  a  professorship  in  the  newly  inaugurated  Acad- 
emy of  Arts  in  Weimar,  having  for  his  colleagues  Lenbach, 
Begas,  and  Preller,  the  landscapist.  Yet  the  sleepy  scholasti- 
cism of  Weimar,  heavy  with  the  shades  of  Goethe,  Schiller,  and 
Wieland,  proved  scarcely  to  his  taste,  and  after  an  inactive  in- 
terlude during  which  he  produced  little  beyond  *  Diana  Hunt- 
ing *  and  *  Pan  frightening  a  Goatherd,*  he  again  fared  south- 
ward visiting  Naples,  Capri,  and  Pompeii,  and  settling  once 
more  in  Rome. 

It  was  during  this  second  Italian  sojourn  that  Bocklin  at- 
tained his  artistic  majority.  The  sapphire  skies,  the  melancholy 
sweep  of  the  Campagna,  and  the  thrill  of  that  legendary, 
Homeric  world  of  Sicily  gave  him  a  richness  and  profundity  of 
sentiment  which  forever  influenced  his  development.  Uncon- 
sciously his  art  divided  itself  into  two  distinct  phases,  the 
satyric,  humorous  paganism  which  had  characterized  *  Pan 
among  the  Reeds,'  and  *  Pan  frightening  a  Goatherd,'  and  the 
solemn,  lyric  grandeur  of  *  The  Villa  by  the  Sea.'  All  that  came 
after  finds  its  genesis  in  either  of  these  two  moods.  They  ex- 
press by  turns,  or  simultaneously,  the  man's  exultant  vitality 
and  that  subdued,  permeating  intensity  which  form  the  essence 
of  his  entire  achievement.  Although  bom  of  the  mountains,  he 
was  singularly  fond  of  the  ocean,  and  year  by  year  responded 
more  and  more  to  the  fascination  of  the  Mediterranean.  Re- 
turning again  and  again  throughout  his  lifetime  to  this  land  of 
myth  and  tradition  he  gradually  adjusted  nature  to  his  own 
particular  imaginative  requirements.  Sunburned  shepherds 
tending  their  flocks  became  faims,  dolphins  sporting  in  the 
waves  became  nereids  at  play,  and  castles  high  upon  storm- 
smitten  cliffs  were  sacked  and  burned  by  ruthless  pirate  bands. 

[69] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

He  even  dreamed  of  building  himself  a  home  on  one  of  the  Siren 
Islands  opposite  Almafi,  the  supposed  originals  of  Scylla  and 
Charybdis,  but  his  own  '  Villa  by  the  Sea  '  the  better  realized 
that  romantic  ambition.  It  was  not  in  fact  until  much  later 
that  he  was  able  to  equal  the  poetic  invocation  of  these  wind- 
tossed  cypresses,  these  crumbling  walls,  and  this  dark,  Iphi- 
genian  figure  watching  the  waves  break  at  her  feet.  The  last 
survivor  of  a  departing  race  she  must  herself  ere  long  be  borne 
to  that  ^  Island  of  Death  '  where  the  very  soul  of  antiquity  lies 
immured. 

In  strong  contrast  to  the  brooding  melancholy  of  the  *  Villa 
by  the  Sea  '  was  the  joyous,  idyllic  *  Daphnis  and  Amaryllis  ' 
of  the  succeeding  year,  one  of  Bocklin^s  happiest  Theocritean 
fantasias  which  he  composed  shortly  before  his  return  to  Basle. 
His  home-coming  on  this  occasion  was  more  encouraging,  for 
shortly  after  his  arrival  he  was  asked  to  decorate  the  summer 
room  of  the  Villa  Sarasin-Thurneysen  as  well  as  the  stairway 
of  the  recently  erected  Museum.  The  stay  in  Basle  was  marked 
by  a  number  of  portraits  and  also  by  a  trinity  of  canvases  small 
in  compass  but  striking  in  conception  including  *  The  Ride  of 
Death,'  *  The  Rocky  Gorge,'  which  was  suggested  by  his  own 
crossing  of  the  St.  Gotthard  Pass  as  well  as  by  Mignon's  song, 
and  the  *  Furies  pursuing  a  Murderer  '  all  of  which  are  now  in 
the  Schack  Gallery.  They  were  still  romance  pure  and  simple 
but  more  concentrated,  more  dramatic,  than  the  romance  of  his 
day.  Slowly  but  surely  he  was  acquiring  that  unity  of  mood, 
that  identity  between  mental  state  and  natural  phenomena 
which  became  the  keynote  of  all  his  subsequent  work.  The  stay 
in  Basle  lasted  five  years,  and  as  a  sardonic  memento  of  his  visit 
he  left  on  the  garden  facade  of  the  Kunsthalle  six  sculptured 
masks  caricaturing  with  wilful  exuberance  the  leading  pillars 
of  a  conmaunity  at  whose  phlegmatic  indifference  to  matters  of 
art  he  could  at  last  afford  to  laugh.    The  years  which  ensued  ^ 

[70] 


ARNOLD    BOCKLIN 

were  increasingly  productive.  His  vision  grew  clearer,  its  for- 
mulation more  concise,  and  he  was  able  to  give  full  sweep  to 
capabilities  which  had  hitherto  found  but  limited  scope.  Plung- 
ing at  once  into  a  mythical,  pagan  realm  he  depicted  the  *  Bat- 
tle of  the  Centaurs,'  which  as  a  masterly  epitome  of  the  fury 
of  natural  forces  not  only  recalls  but  surpasses  Rubens 's  *  Lion 
Hunt.'  *  Pan  Fishing  '  and  the  *  Nereid  and  Triton  '  of  the 
Schack  Gallery  followed  within  a  few  months.  To  the  latter 
theme  Bocklin  returned  time  after  time,  the  deep-sea  mystery 
and  dazzling  brightness  of  sky  and  wave  which  he  attained  with 
such  assurance  having  never  been  surpassed.    Sometimes,  as  in 

*  Naiads  at  Play  '  and  *  Sport  of  the  Waves,'  he  was  jovial  and 
humorous.  In  *  The  Silence  of  the  Ocean  '  he  spread  over  the 
blue  expanse  an  infinitude  of  calm,  while  in  Herr  Simrock's 

*  Triton  and  Nereid  '  his  mood  assumed  epic  significance.  The 
nereid,  superb  in  her  nacreous  lustre  of  tint,  is  desirous  and 
insatiate.  The  triton,  his  eyes  averted,  gazes  across  the  waste 
of  waters  with  all  the  diunb,  undefined  pathos  of  creature  part 
man  and  part  aquatic  monster.  They  were  bom  in  the  dawn  of 
life,  this  strangely  mated  pair.  They  belong  to  dim,  rudimentary 
days ;  around  them  wash  the  waves  of  purple  Oceanus. 

After  four  years  in  the  Bavarian  capital  Bocklin  recrossed 
the  Alps  settling  this  time  in  Florence,  where,  imder  the  in- 
spiration of  the  Renaissance  painters,  his  art  acquired  a  more 
formal  perfection  and  still  deeper  emotional  import.  It  proved 
indeed  his  supreme  creative  period.  With  each  canvas  his 
colouring  became  more  sonorous  and  intense  and  his  invention 
correspondingly  vivid  and  daring.  The  beautiful  *  Sleeping 
Diana,'  '  The  Fields  of  the  Blessed,'  '  The  Island  of  Death,' 
^  Prometheus,'  and  *  The  Sacred  Grove  '  are  but  a  few  of  the 
imaginative  masterpieces  which  succeeded  each  other  with  ma- 
jestic calm  and  surety.  *  The  Island  of  Death  '  with  its  gently 
swaying  cypresses,  burnished  waters,  and  barge  gliding  irre- 

[71] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

sistibly  toward  its  craterlike  bourne  is  one  of  the  most  pene- 
trant evocations  of  any  age.  Noble  in  tonality,  impeccable  in 
composition,  and  infinite  in  tragic  suggestion,  the  picture  typi- 
fies both  the  solemnity  of  a  vanished  world  and  the  restless  in- 
terrogation of  later  times.  It  is  at  once  an  elegy  upon  antiquity 
and  a  symbol  of  human  longing  for  divine  peace  and  transfigu- 
ration. Silently  and  inevitably  the  past  and  the  future  are 
brought  face  to  face  among  these  dark  island  catacombs.  From 
the  sublime  awe  of  *  The  Island  of  Death  '  Bocklin  rose  with  un- 
diminished power  to  the  heights  whereon  his  Aeschylean  *  Pro- 
metheus '  lies  chained  to  the  inaccessible  crags  of  Caucasus. 
Here  again  is  allegory  of  a  profound  order,  for  this  colossal, 
cloudlike  figure  suggests  not  only  the  battle  of  gods  and  giants 
but  the  blunt,  imceasing  struggle  of  mankind  for  a  more  exalted 
estate.  The  vast,  titanic  form  of  this  *  Prometheus,'  so  vaguely 
outlined  that  he  seems  almost  an  atmospheric  vision,  marks  the 
climax  of  Bocklin 's  quasi-classical  manner.  With  undimmed 
clarity  and  zest  he  turned  from  purpureal  threnody  to  the 
glaucous  splendour  of  *  The  Sport  of  the  Waves.'  The  famous 
*^  blue  phase  ''  was  over.  He  emerged  once  again  into  the  light 
of  the  Sim. 

For  the  sake  of  his  children's  education  Bocklin  next  moved 
to  Ziirich,  where  he  bought  a  house  at  Hottingen,  in  the  Ries- 
bach  district,  and  built  himself  a  big,  wooden  studio.  The  world 
had  at  last  begun  to  recognize  his  originality  and  his  greatness. 
Honours  fell  to  his  lot,  and  he  gathered  about  him  a  devoted 
coterie  of  friends,  including  the  novelists,  Gottfried  Keller  and 
Ferdinand  Conrad  Meyer,  and  the  artists,  Stauffer-Bern  and 
Otto  Lasius.  His  tastes  were  those  of  a  simple,  normal  Swiss 
bourgeois.  His  studio  was  bare  and  workmanlike  containing 
none  of  the  sumptuous  atrocities  which  so  appealed  to  Makart 
or  Munkacsy.  For  him  not  only  was  the  kingdom  of  heaven, 
but  in  large  measure  the  kingdom  of  earth,  within.    He  was  a 

[72] 


Q 


Q 
H 

o   .s 


ARNOLD    BOCKLIN 

slow  producer,  and  would  sit  for  days  beside  an  imtouched  can- 
vas, his  soul  imprisoned  by  a  line  from  Tasso,  by  some  uncouth, 
Boeotian  suggestion,  or  a  glimpse  into  the  fabulous  fore-time  of 
the  universe.  From  the  first  he  had  been  a  law  unto  himself, 
caring  as  little  for  the  conventional  in  life  as  for  the  quotidian 
in  art.  When  asked  by  Wagner,  who  greatly  admired  his  work, 
to  undertake  the  scenic  decorations  for  the  *  Ring  '  he  laconic- 
ally replied  that  he  did  not  care  ^*  to  make  pictures  for  music." 
His  was  essentially  an  isolated  nature.  In  conversation  he  was 
diffident  and  often  constrained,  though  on  occasions  displayed 
abounding  good  humour.  Society  he  abhorred;  he  had  to  be 
dragged,  almost,  to  his  daughter's  wedding,  arriving  late  and 
sitting  far  back  in  the  church  with  hair  awry  and  eyes  tense 
with  emotion.  His  boon  companion  during  these  Ziirich  days 
was  Gottfried  Keller,  as  great  a  nationalist  in  letters  as  Bocklin 
himself  was  in  art.  Often  they  might  have  been  seen  passing 
arm  in  arm  along  the  winding  streets  of  Lavater's  town  or  sit- 
ting, almost  any  evening,  **  Zum  Pfauen  "  over  their  beer,  en- 
veloped in  dense  clouds  of  tobacco  smoke.  Though  his  life  was 
darkened  by  domestic  misfortune,  and  though  he  was  cruelly 
shaken  by  the  death  of  Keller,  he  continued  to  paint  with  un- 
abated energy  until  1892  when  he  was  severely,  almost  fatally 
stricken  by  apoplexy.  On  his  recovery  he  turned  for  the  fourth 
and  last  time  to  Italy,  his  foster  home,  passing  the  remainder 
of  his  days  at  his  villa  in  San  Domenico  midway  between 
Florence  and  Fiesole. 

When  again  strong  enough  to  resume  work  this  epic  man 
showed  but  slight  diminution  of  power,  '  Venus  Genetrix,' 
*  Polyphemus,'  and  *  Orlando  Furioso  '  being  only  a  trifle  be- 
low his  accustomed  standard.  Surrounded  by  a  numerous  and 
talented  family,  and  acclaimed  the  length  and  breadth  of  Ger- 
many on  the  occasion  of  his  seventieth  birthday,  the  last  few 
years  of  Bocklin 's  life  were  calm  and  quiescent.    In  a  minor 

[73] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

way  his  home  became,  like  Wagner's  Wahnfried,  the  Mecca  of 
faithful  admirers,  who  came,  chiefly  from  over  the  Alps,  to 
spend  a  few  days  or  hours  with  the  master-f antast  now  grown 
grey  and  taciturn  and  never,  indeed,  caring  aught  for  worldly 
honours  or  adulation.  His  own  odyssey,  which  had  proved  so 
fertile,  was  over,  and  he  seldom  left  the  peaceful  walks  and 
terraces  of  his  villa  from  whence  he  could  see  the  valley  of  the 
Arno,  the  heights  of  Lastra,  and  by  night  the  reflected  radiance 
of  the  city  below.  Because  of  his  massive  head  and  military 
bearing  the  Italians  called  him  *'  Bismarck,'*  for  it  was  not 
until  shattered  by  successive  apoplectic  strokes  that  his  iron 
frame  lost  its  erectness  and  vigour.  Though  he  continued  at 
his  easel  to  the  last,  painting  within  a  year  or  so  of  his  death 
*  Melancholy,'  *  War,'  and  a  black-winged  *  Plague,'  the  great 
work,  by  the  beginning  of  the  century,  lay  behind,  not  before 
him.  Almost  inarticulate,  and  moving  with  short,  ataxic  gest- 
ures, he  seemed  like  one  of  those  mythical,  hyperborean  creat- 
ures which  had  so  long  peopled  his  brain.  Unable  to  see  the 
ocean  which  he  so  loved,  he  would  place  to  his  ears  big,  multi- 
coloured shells,  and  sit  for  hours  listening  to  the  murmur  of 
distant  waters.  Hastened  by  an  attack  of  pneumonia  the  end 
came  on  16  January  1901.  Two  days  later,  at  five  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon,  they  bore  him  to  the  Campo  Santo  degli  Allori 
just  beyond  the  gates  of  Florence.  There  was  but  a  handf  xil  of 
mourners  present  and  the  services  were  extremely  simple.  It 
had  been  a  dark,  overcast  day,  with  only  a  few  gleams  of  sun- 
light. As  they  left  him  reposing  on  the  undulating  slope, 
watched  over  by  tall  cypresses,  the  western  sky  was  suffused 
by  a  glory  of  pale  gold  and  a  gentle  wind  stirred  the  protecting 
tree-tops. 

Arnold  Bocklin  belongs  to  the  Olympians  of  art.  Phe- 
nomenally endowed,  he  was  a  doer  as  well  as  a  dreamer.  Few 
men  have  ever  come  into  the  world  with  such  abundant  natural 

[74] 


ARNOLD    BOCKLIN 

gifts  and  such  boundless  physical  energy.  Not  only  was  he  a 
great  painter ;  he  was  a  great  thinker  as  well.  There  was  prac- 
tically nothing  he  did  not  know  concerning  the  technique  of  his 
craft.  For  months  at  a  time,  particularly  in  Ziirich,  he  devoted 
his  mind  to  chemistry  in  order  to  familiarize  himself  with  the 
properties  of  various  pigments.  Throughout  his  entire  life, 
though  notably  in  Weimar,  he  busied  himself  with  mechanics,  it 
being  his  cherished  ambition  to  solve  the  problem  of  aerial  navi- 
gation. Although,  in  company  with  a  goodly  number  of  Icari- 
ans,  he  failed,  no  less  an  authority  than  Helmholtz,  on  examining 
his  models,  which  were  based  upon  the  flight  of  birds,  averred 
that  the  painter  had  come  nearer  success  than  anyone  he  had 
known.  Like  other  members  of  his  family  he  was  a  gifted  mu- 
sician as  well  as  an  indefatigable  reader,  mainly  of  medieval 
and  ancient  authors,  his  favourites  being  Tasso,  Ariosto,  and 
Homer,  and  on  all  questions  philosophical  or  aesthetic  he  held 
emphatic  and  illuminating  opinions.  His  niunerous  portraits 
of  himself  offer  an  excellent  index  to  the  outward  appearance 
of  the  man,  the  best  of  them  being  the  calm,  virile  likeness  in 
which  he  holds  a  wine-glass  in  his  hand,  and  an  earlier  canvas 
showing  him  pausing  an  instant  while  Heath  plays  in  his  ears 
elusive,  spectral  harmonies,  a  variant,  of  course,  on  Holbein's 

*  Sir  Bryan  Tuke  '  in  the  Munich  Pinakothek.  And  yet  with 
his  hirsute  head,  his  powerful  arms,  and  his  profound  affinity 
with  bygone  ages  and  epochs,  he  suggested  above  all  else  Chiron, 
the  wisest  and  justest  of  the  centaurs,  who  stands  knee-deep 
and  pensive  in  the  azure  pool  which  waters  the  painter's  own 

*  Fields  of  the  Blessed.' 

The  most  unusual  feature  about  Bocklin  was,  however,  the 
incredible  strength  and  perfection  of  his  eyes,  which  were  a 
clear  blue-grey.  **  I  like  to  look  straight  into  the  sim,"  he  re- 
marked to  Professor  Horner  of  Zurich,  and  doubtless  he  was 
able  to  do  so.    It  was  in  large  measure  because  of  this  remark- 

[75] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

able  visual  faculty  that  Bocklin  became  the  supreme  colourist 
he  was.  His  eyes  literally  drank  up  the  varied  hues  about  him, 
and  no  image,  once  received,  was  ever  lost  or  ever  became 
blurred.  Although  he  lived  constantly  in  the  open,  he  never 
made  sketches,  always  preferring  to  paint  from  memory.  He 
chose  by  instinct  the  most  diverse  and  alluring  tints — the  blazing 
glory  of  midday,  the  vapoury  softness  of  a  limar  landscape,  the 
grotto-blue  of  the  sea,  the  copper-brown  of  faun's  skin,  or  the 
viridescence  of  water  serpent.  He  saw  colour  ever5rwhere  and 
in  everything.  The  hazy  Campagna,  sharp  vistas  of  t^e  Juras, 
foam-lashed  rocks  along  the  Sicilian  coast,  or  the  hyacinthine 
uplands  of  Tuscany  in  springtime — here  a  splash  of  sunlight, 
there  a  stretch  of  dark  forest — all  afforded  him  an  incomparable 
accumulation  of  optical  stimuli.  Unlike  most  artists  he  com- 
posed in  colours  instead  of  in  line  or  mass  giving  each  work 
a  distinct  tonal  unity  which  could  not  fail  to  compel  attention. 
Yet  in  common  with  his  great  contemporary  in  the  realm  of 
opera,  Bocklin,  like  Wagner,  often  deliberately  varied  what 
might  otherwise  have  proved  a  smooth,  melodic  utterance. 
Both  painter  and  musician  were  the  avowed  apostles  of  abrupt, 
almost  crude,  transitions.  It  is  they  who  have  best  demon- 
strated the  emotional  and  artistic  value  of  occasional  dissonance. 
Though  he  sometimes  drew  the  figure  with  welcome  precision 
it  is  to  be  regretted  that  Bocklin 's  plastic  sense  was  not  more 
highly  developed,  for  in  this  province  he  is  easily  excelled  by  the 
vigour  of  Stuck  or  the  eurhythmic  elegance  of  Gysis.  Sane  and 
affirmative,  the  art  of  Bocklin  is  concerned  with  no  problems 
either  pious  or  social,  its  only  possible  text  being  a  fearless 
proclamation  of  the  identity  of  all  created  things.  *^  A  picture 
must  be  painted  for  the  eye,  not  for  the  mind,"  he  maintained, 
and  it  is  for  the  eye  that  this  art  exists.  It  was  Arnold  Bocklin 's 
aesthetic  mission  to  mirror  his  soul  in  a  continuous  cycle  of 
beauty  and  mystery.    A  Teuton  to  the  core,  he  accomplished 

[76] 


ARNOLD    BOCKLIN 

that  which  had  so  long  baffled  his  fellow-countrymen.  By  the 
magic  of  his  brush,  and  with  all  nature  for  his  palette,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  blending  Germanic  fantasy  and  Hellenic  blitheness. 
Like  Euphorion,  he  was  a  typical  child  of  those  two  master  cur- 
rents. Antiquity  and  the  Renaissance,  out  of  which  has  emerged 
the  questing  modem  world. 


[77] 


CONSTANTIN  MEUNIER 


CONSTANTIN    MEUNIER 

Portrait  of  the  artist  by  Max  Liebermann 

[^Courtesy  of  Herr  lAebermann^ 


CONSTANTIN  MEUNIER 


TO  have  led  art  from  palace  and  cathedral  to  cottage  door 
and  into  field  and  factory,  to  have  delivered  her  from 
the  hands  of  king,  priest,  or  noble  patron  and  presented 
her  unfettered  to  the  people,  is  not  the  least  triumph  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  Once  aristocratic  and  pietistic,  art  is  to- 
day also  democratic  and  socialistic.  Although  it  took  the  peas- 
ants of  France  but  a  few  months  to  storm  the  Bastille  and  sack 
the  Tuileries  the  moment  was  long  preparing.  Though  in  a 
similar  way  it  has  only  been  within  the  present  generation  that 
art  has  attained  universal  suffrage,  it  was  as  far  back  as  the 
early  'twenties  that  the  movement  had  its  inception.  Curiously 
enough,  a  flamboyant  romanticist,  Gericault,  was  one  of  the 
first  to  recognize  the  dignity  and  power  of  labour.  It  was  not 
Millet,  but  such  masters  as  Gericault,  Cals,  and  Jenron  who 
were  the  true  heralds  of  the  proletariat  in  art,  who  were  the 
original  champions  of  the  man  in  sabots  and  smock.  For  a  good 
quarter  of  a  century  he  moved  clumsily,  even  timidly,  in  this 
new  realm  of  form  and  colour.  With  the  redoubtable  Courbet 
he  entered  aggressively  into  his  own.  While  Gericault 's  *  Lime- 
kiln '  and  the  humble  rustics  and  vagabonds  of  Cals  were  ex- 
perimental, it  was  with  something  akin  to  savage  assurance 
that  the  *  Stone-breakers  '  of  Gustave  Courbet  crushed  under 
their  swinging  blows  the  marble  pedestal  of  a  frigid,  exclusive, 
and  antiquated  temple  of  beauty.  By  the  'fifties  work  had  be- 
come a  theme  in  itself.     Across  the  Channel  Ford  Madox 

[81] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

Brown  was  inspired  to  paint  its  apotheosis,  and  some  years 
later  the  perceptive  Adolf  von  Menzel,  to  whom  no  phase  of 
human  activity  was  foreign,  gave  the  world  a  third  great  pict- 
ure of  labour  with  his  *  Rolling  Mill/  Thus  far,  however,  work 
had  been  treated  in  a  broad,  sjrmbolic  vein.  Despite  their  un- 
questioned sincerity  Courbet^s  *  Stone-breakers,'  Millet's  sober 
toilers  on  the  plain  of  Fontainebleau,  and  Menzel's  grimy  iron- 
moulders  of  Konigshiitte  were  not  sharply  individualized. 
There  was  still  something  theoretical  about  them ;  the  idea  still 
loomed  larger  than  the  fact  behind  it.  With  the  exception  of 
Millet,  work  was  with  these  painters  an  episode  rather  than 
an  experience,  a  chance  text  rather  than  a  permanent  condition. 
It  was  not  in  France,  nor  England,  nor  Germany,  but  in  a 
smaller,  more  compact,  and  more  densely  populated  country 
that  labour  and  the  labouring  man  assiuned  their  rightful  place 
in  the  domain  of  aesthetics.  It  was  not,  indeed,  imtil  the  rise 
of  modern  industrialism,  not  until  they  had  gained  unity  and 
organization  that  these  serfs  of  civilization  captured  the  citadel 
of  art. 

There  is  singular  propriety  in  the  fact  that  Flanders  and 
the  Low  Countries,  which  were  the  first  to  free  themselves 
from  the  tyranny  of  Court  and  Church,  should  also  have  been 
the  scene  of  this  new  conquest  for  the  extension  of  the  artistic 
franchise.  Certain  timid  spirits  are  fond  of  contending  that 
industrialism  is  the  enemy  of  aesthetic  expression.  The  factory 
and  the  forge,  the  coal-pit  and  the  quarry,  are  supposed  to 
crush  beauty,  to  obliterate  art.  Yet  the  contrary  is  true. 
No  country  is  more  industrial  than  Belgium.  Within  a  few 
decades  the  meadows  of  Brabant,  the  leafy  copses  of  Hainaut, 
and  the  valleys  of  the  Meuse  and  the  Sambre  have  been  seamed 
and  blistered  by  myriads  of  collieries  and  iron-foundries.  The 
whole  face  of  the  land  has  been  seared  and  the  sky  blackened 
by  fumes  from  countless  chimneys  and  blast-furnaces.    Man, 

[82] 


ANTWERP    DOCK-HAND 

From  the  bronze  by  Constantin  Meunier 
[The  Luxembourg,  Paris^ 


CONSTANTIN    MEUNIER 

instead  of  remaining  pastoral,  has  become  a  dusky,  subter- 
ranean creature.  His  back  is  bowed  and  the  song  on  his  lips 
has  turned  to  a  bitter  harangue  for  easier  hours  and  better 
pay.  Everything,  it  would  seem,  has  conspired  to  annihilate 
art  and  the  sense  of  beauty,  yet  both  have  survived  and  even 
taken  on  new  and  profound  significance.  The  novels  of  Ca- 
naille Lemonnier,  the  verse  of  Verhaeren,  and  the  gentle  mysti- 
cism of  Maeterlinck  have  all  flowered  on  this  sombre  battle- 
field of  industry.  In  painting  Frederic  and  Laermans  reveal 
a  vital  and  penetrating  mastery,  while  the  sculpture  of  George 
Minne  displays  a  dolorous  and  tender  appeal.  It  is  not  despite, 
it  is  rather  because  of,  existing  conditions  that  such  results 
have  been  achieved.  The  art  of  Belgium  is  imcompromisingly 
social.  It  has  never  been,  and  can  never  be,  a  mere  matter 
of  play  or  prettiness.  Nowhere  is  the  social  function  of  art 
more  clearly  understood;  nowhere  is  its  vindication  more 
concrete  or  more  absolute.  Except  for  a  brief  excursion  into 
romanticism  jthe  Belgians  have  always  been  hardy,  resolute 
realists,  and  never  more  so  than  during  the  century  just  passed. 
Early  in  his  troubled  career  there  gathered  about  the  pathetic, 
sedentary  figure  of  Charles  de  Groux  a  group  of  men  whose 
creed  was  actuality,  whose  passion  was  not  a  vapid,  languid 
loveliness,  but  a  truth  that  could  enlist  the  deepest  hmnan 
sympathies  and  aspirations.  Yet  it  was  not  in  the  paintings  of 
these  apostles  of  the  poor,  these  friends  of  the  forlorn  and  fam- 
ished, nor  in  letters  either,  that  the  supreme  accent  of  the  move- 
ment was  manifested.  It  was  voiced  in  the  austere  yet  benign, 
the  vigorous  yet  resigned  art  of  Constantin  Meunier.  One  by 
one  his  colleagues  turned  aside  leaving  the  yoimgest  member 
of  the  group  to  find  the  path  alone.  And  he,  too,  seemed  to 
deflect  for  a  while,  though  only  to  return  with  renewed  strength 
and  fortitude. 

In  his  reticence  and  simple  ruggedness  and  sincerity  Con- 

[83] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

stantin  Meunier  recalls  the  master-craftsmen  of  other,  sturdier 
times.  He  passed  away  at  seventy-four,  in  the  fullness  of  effort, 
for  he  was  one  of  those  who  mature  but  slowly.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  a  brief  journey  to  Spain  he  scarcely  left  his  native 
land.  "  I  have  never  had  any  adventures,"  he  once  said,  ^'  I 
have  only  dreamed  and  worked."  Though  modem  in  feeling 
his  art  is  both  Gothic  and  Greek,  both  restless  and  serene.  It 
is  above  everything  an  art  that  typifies  the  spirit  of  the  hour. 
All  the  fierce  energy,  all  the  material  pride  and  progress,  and 
inventive  genius  of  to-day  are  reflected  in  Meunier 's  miners 
and  foundrymen,  his  puddlers  and  glassblowers.  The  logical 
product  of  the  coimtry  of  his  birth,  he  was  the  first  sculptor 
who  saw  plastic  beauty  in  the  workman,  the  first  to  give  labour 
the  precious  baptism  of  art.  Born  at  Etterbeek,  a  suburb  of 
Brussels,  12  April  1831,  the  son  of  an  impecunious  tax-collector 
and  the  grandnephew  of  a  smith  whose  three  boys  had  left 
home  to  follow  the  banners  of  Napoleon,  Constantin  Meunier 
was  distinctly  of  the  people.  Left  a  widow  with  six  young  chil- 
dren to  provide  for,  his  mother,  who  was  a  gentle,  tenacious 
soul,  moved  from  Etterbeek  to  a  small  house  in  the  place  du 
petit  Sablon  where  she  opened  a  modest  dressmaking  establish- 
ment and  rented  her  few  spare  rooms.  A  timid,  pallid  child 
with  huge  head  and  slender,  angular  frame,  Constantin  was 
placed  almost  wholly  in  the  care  of  his  elder  brother,  Jean- 
Baptiste,  who  was  a  journeyman  printer  and  later  an  engraver 
of  note.  From  birth  the  boy  was  emotionally  supersensitive  and 
until  fifteen  used  to  weep  every  evening  toward  sundown.  Hav- 
ing been  previously  taught  drawing  by  Jean-Baptiste,  Constan- 
tin, at  seventeen,  entered  the  studio  of  the  florid,  academic 
Fraikin  in  order  to  learn  the  rudiments  of  sculpture.  During 
his  three  years  with  Fraikin  the  lad  did  little  beside  tend  the 
fire  with  complete  circmnspection,  keep  the  clay  wet,  and  imbibe 
an  utter  loathing  for  the  insipid  elegance  of  the  school  then  in 

[84] 


CONSTANTIN    MEUNIER 

vogue.  Although  his  debut  as  a  sculptor  was  made  at  the 
Brussels  Salon  of  1851  with  *  The  Garland/  he  evinced  but 
slight  enthusiasm  for  the  plastic  arts,  and  on  entering  the 
atelier  Saint-Luc  was  readilj  induced  by  de  Groux  and  others  to 
renounce  sculpture  for  painting.  The  change  was  a  consistent 
one,  for  the  poignant  verity  which  these  masters  sought  to  lay 
bare  could  be  better  told  by  brush  and  crayon.  The  moment 
when  sculpture  was  to  take  up  the  burden  of  contemporary  life 
had  not  yet  come. 

Insensibly  and  perhaps  through  some  awakening  religious 
atavism,  Constantin  Meunier's  rigid,  contemplative  spirit  was 
next  drawn  toward  the  shadows  of  the  cloister.  Oppressed  by 
the  sorrow  and  poverty  about  him  and  seeking  perchance  solace 
or  self-immolation,  he  went  to  live,  as  Verhaeren  afterward 
did,  among  the  Trappist  monks.  At  Westmalle  in  the  Flemish 
Campine  he  found  a  fitting  retreat,  and  in  both  cases  the  se- 
questration proved  fruitful,  the  painter's  *  Burial  of  a  Trap- 
pist '  and  *  Stoning  of  St.  Stephen  '  being  curiously  paralleled 
by  the  zealous  exaltation  of  the  poet's  '  Friars.'  Yet  always 
Meunier  must  have  felt  that  sacred  art,  however  pleading  and 
human,  was  not  his  final  expression.  It  was  inevitable  that 
he  should  have  sought  to  widen  his  sympathies,  to  enrich  a 
somewhat  sober,  hectic  palette.  Just  as  Maeterlinck  later 
turned  from  *  Ruysbroeck  the  Admirable  '  to  ^  The  Treasure 
of  the  Humble,'  so  Constantin  Meimier  drifted  gradually  from 
the  passivity  of  monastic  existence  into  a  broader  fellowship 
and  brotherhood.  Bowed  figures  in  dim,  grey  chapels  and  those 
twisted  images  of  Christ  on  the  wayside  crosses  of  Flanders 
seemed,  after  all,  less  beseeching  than  the  poor  labourer  who 
hurried  by  making  the  sign.  Meanwhile  he  was  more  than  a 
mere  spectator  of  mortal  suffering  and  misery.  Having  mar- 
ried young  and  finding  scant  sale  for  his  pictures  he  was  forced, 
together  with  de  Groux,  who  was  an  even  sadder  victim  of  iU 

[85] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

fortune,  to  support  himself  and  family  by  executing  designs 
for  stained  glass  and  drawing  heads  of  saints  for  cheap  printed 
handkerchiefs.  They  worked  side  by  side,  these  two  friends  of 
humanity,  for  Capronnier,  the  ecclesiastical  decorator,  and  in 
the  churches  of  Louvain,  Chatelineau  and  throughout  the  prov- 
ince of  Liege  may  still  be  seen  windows  or  stations  of  the  cross 
fashioned  by  the  sweat  of  their  brows  and  the  blood  of  their 
starved  artist  souls. 

On  his  return  from  Spain,  whither  he  had  been  sent  by  the 
government  to  copy  Kempeneer's  *  Descent  from  the  Cross,' 
Meunier  definitely  left  the  monastery  for  the  mine,  definitely 
gave  up  colour  for  clay  and  bronze.  The  visit  to  Spain,  where 
pity  is  almost  a  pastime,  and  something  in  the  man's  own  men- 
tal and  moral  austerity  impelled  him  to  visit  that  "  Black 
Coimtry  "  which  is  itself  scarcely  more  than  an  industrial  in- 
quisition. An  opportune  commission  to  furnish  the  illustra- 
tions for  Camille  Lemonnier's  descriptive  book  on  Belgiima 
caused  him  to  make  a  systematic  tour  of  the  region,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  he  realized  that  he  had  at  last  f oirnd  the  field 
for  which  he  had  so  earnestly  been  seeking.  At  first  he  drew 
and  painted  as  before,  but  one  day  in  the  Borinage,  as  he  was 
passing  the  entrance  of  a  mine  he  happened  to  catch  sight  of  a 
group  of  workmen,  toil-stained  and  stripped  to  the  waist, 
emerging  from  the  depths  into  the  glow  of  evening.  He 
instinctively  felt  that  the  rhythm  of  their  movements  and  the 
heavy,  yet  supple  elasticity  of  their  bodies  could  be  translated 
only  by  sculpture.  So  strong  was  his  conviction,  and  so  implicit 
was  his  faith  in  himself,  that  this  man  of  past  fifty  suddenly 
gave  up  his  career  as  a  painter  and  began  his  artistic  life  afresh. 
He  proceeded  to  study  the  labourer  in  all  his  aspects  and  atti- 
tudes. He  lived  for  a  time  at  Val  Saint-Lambert  among  the 
glassblowers,  and  later  among  the  f  oundrymen  and  puddlers  of 
Seraing.   All  along  that  black,  stifling  belt  which  stretches  from 

[86] 


^^l* 


t xoaf3jss.g3i2a:'?i::"'?A";-  "?^:*yt?»a!tgB^';': 


--^T^jgap^^^aB^ 


WATERING    A    COLLIERY    HORSE 
From  the  group  by  Constantin  Meunier 
[Square  Amhiorix,  Brussels] 


CONSTANTIN    MEUNIER 

Liege  to  Charleroi  and  from  Charleroi  to  Mons  he  watched 
those  dogged  sons  of  Cain  fulfilling  their  sinister  destiny.  At 
Frameries  and  Paturages  he  found  them  stunted,  deformed,  and 
stamped  with  tragic  depression,  but  for  the  most  part  they  dis- 
played a  silent  heroism  and  a  primitive  energy  which  turned 
pity  into  admiration.  Still,  he  did  not  spend  his  entire  time 
indoors  nor  imder  ground  among  creatures  more  like  antique 
troglodytes  than  human  beings.  He  also  went  abroad  in  the  sun, 
with  the  mower  or  the  happy  harvester.  It  was  work  which  he 
chose  for  his  theme,  work  and  the  workmen  in  their  every  phase. 
All  the  man's  passion  for  form  and  contour  which  had  thus 
far  lain  dormant  surged  forward  with  resistless  impetus.  He 
actually  appeared  to  grow  younger,  to  undergo  a  species  of 
physical  as  well  as  artistic  rebirth.  The  whole  of  his  previous 
life  was  but  a  prolonged  apprenticeship  for  that  which  fol- 
lowed. At  the  outset  he  modelled  little  figures  in  wax,  which, 
though  crude,  were  rich  in  vital  intensity.  Within  a  few  short 
years  he  had  attained  the  accent  of  assured  mastery.  The  fight 
for  recognition  nevertheless  proved  a  bitter  struggle.  *  The 
Hammerman  '  and  *  The  Puddler  '  which  were  exhibited  in 
Brussels  and  in  Paris  during  1885  and  1886  were  received  with 
more  curiosity  than  enthusiasm.  Although  their  appearance 
synchronized  mth  the  rise  of  the  Labour  Party  in  Belgium  and 
elsewhere,  few  realized  the  significance  either  social  or  aesthetic 
of  these  majestic,  submissive  giants  of  the  forge  and  furnace 
or  saw  that  they  possessed  any  special  claim  to  consideration. 
It  was  naturally  difficult  for  an  artist  who  had  suddenly 
changed  his  medium  to  secure  commissions,  and  feeling  uncer- 
tain of  the  future,  Meunier  was  compelled  to  accept  the  profes- 
sorship of  painting  at  the  Academy  of  Louvain.  For  family 
reasons  alone  the  sacrifice  was  made,  and  in  1887  he  left  his 
humble  quarters  in  Brussels  for  the  grey,  scholastic  town  of 
Father  Damien. 

[87] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

Yet  this  apparent  renunciation  did  not  prove  in  vain,  for  it 
was  here  that  Constantin  Meunier  revealed  the  measure  of  his 
power  as  an  artist,  and  it  was  here  that  he  proved  his  deep 
understanding  of  the  sad,  ennobling  beauty  of  toil.  Instead  of 
being  a  barren  exile  the  years  at  Louvain  proved  the  vigil  of 
his  glory.  He  worked  unremittingly,  pausing  only  to  attend 
his  classes.  Statue  followed  statue,  and  group  succeeded  group, 
until  he  had  almost  completed  that  valiant  hymn  to  labour 
which  constitutes  the  fitting  climax  of  his  life  task.  The  ma- 
jority of  these  passive,  cyclopean  creatures  as  well  as  numerous 
busts  and  reliefs  were  either  planned  or  executed  at  Louvain. 
Most  of  them  were  men,  though  he  now  and  then  modelled  a 
female  figure  such  as  the  buoyant  *  Mine  Girl '  or  the  mother 
crushed  beneath  a  weight  of  anguish  and  fatality  in  that  tragic 
episode  entitled  *  Fire-damp.'  Animals,  too,  he  made  share 
their  portion  of  creation's  inflexible  destiny.     Like  Zola  in 

*  Germinal '  he  felt  drawn  toward  those  sodden  brutes  con- 
demned to  plod  dumbly  amid  suffocating  darkness.    With  the 

*  Old  Mine  Horse  '  he  gave  but  another  version  of  *  Bataille  ' 
in  all  his  spent  and  helpless  decrepitude.  Meunier 's  sympa- 
thetic observation  was  meanwhile  not  exclusively  confined  to 
the  '*  Black  Country."  Little  by  little  he  widened  his  circle  of 
activity  by  adding  *  The  Mower  '  and  *  The  Ploughman,'  *  The 
Reaper  '  glancing  at  the  noonday  sun,  and  *  The  Sower  '  scat- 
tering his  seed  with  an  impressive,  primeval  sweep  of  the  arm. 

*  The  Quarryman,'  too,  he  transferred  to  this  cycle  of  human 
effort  nor  did  he  neglect  *  The  Brickmaker  '  or  *  The  Dock- 
hand.'  Bit  by  bit  he  enlarged  his  panorama,  omitting  the  inci- 
dental and  bringing  into  closer  accord  that  which  was  general 
and  tjrpical.  And  by  and  by  the  varied  elements  began  to  show 
a  certain  community  of  feeling  as  though  obeying  a  single,  uni- 
fying impulse.  Although  the  actual  subject-matter  of  his  art 
had  changed  he  rigorously  adhered  to  the  inner  law  of  his  being. 

[88] 


THE    QUARRYMAN 

From  the  bronze  by  Constantin  Meuniei: 

[The  Modern  Gallery,  Brussels] 


CONSTANTIN    MEUNIER 

He  had  simply  turned  from  the  heroes  and  martyrs  of  faith 
to  those  himabler  though  not  less  eloquent  victims  of  economic 
pressure  and  distress. 

The  studio  in  which  this  earnest,  patriarchal  man  worked 
from  dawn  until  nightfall  was  situated  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
town.  The  building  was  known  as  the  "  Amphitheatre  "  hav- 
ing for  a  long  time  served  as  the  dissecting  room  of  a  near-by 
medical  college.  It  was  a  grim,  sepulchral  structure,  tower- 
shaped  and  pierced  by  high,  arched  windows  some  of  which 
were  roughly  boarded  over.  The  interior  was  dim  even  at  mid- 
day, for  the  walls  were  darkened  by  the  moisture  of  ages.  In 
the  seclusion  of  this  sleepy  Gothic  town,  the  silence  broken 
only  by  the  sound  of  distant  bells  or  the  footfall  of  some  chance 
passer-by  Meunier  remained  almost  a  decade.  He  rarely  had 
an  assistant,  preferring  to  execute  even  the  most  rudimentary 
tasks  with  his  own  hands.  Pale,  long-bearded  and  wearing  a 
beret  and  plain  grey  blouse  he  wrought  with  the  solemn  pre- 
occupation of  one  performing  an  almost  sacred  office.  Guided 
by  the  inherent  simplicity  and  grandeur  of  his  own  nature  he 
looked  at  all  things  simply  and  grandly,  his  antique  energy  of 
purpose  being  tinged  by  Christian  sorrow  and  self-sacrifice. 
Mystic  to  the  core,  he  was  at  times  the  prey  of  hallucinations 
more  or  less  vivid.  He  appeared  to  be  in  constant  communion 
with  the  great  spirits  of  the  past.  The  impress  of  things  gone 
and  the  shadows  of  things  to  come  were  always  upon  him.  **  I 
am  never  alone  here,"  he  would  often  say,  grimly  referring  to 
the  countless  departed  souls  who  seemed  to  haunt  the  place. 
His  psychic  powers  were  not,  alas,  purely  fanciful,  for  the  pre- 
cise hour  his  younger  son,  the  beloved  *'  marin,''  was  lost  at 
sea  he  had  a  distinct  presentment  of  the  event.  This  blow 
coupled  with  the  death  a  few  months  later  of  his  talented  elder 
son,  Karl,  turned  Meunier 's  eyes  once  again  toward  the  pensive 
consolation  of  sacred  themes.  A  pitiful,  tortured  *  Ecce  Homo,' 

[89] 


MODEEN    ARTISTS 

a  *  Prodigal  Son,'  full  of  filial  trust  and  paternal  forgiveness, 
and  a  *  Pieta  '  are  the  mute  records  of  his  suffering  and  res- 
ignation. 

A  wish  to  leave  the  scene  of  his  bereavement,  as  well  as  the 
necessity  for  better  facilities  in  order  to  finish  the  monumental 
groups  already  under  way  caused  Meunier  to  return  to  Brus- 
sels. He  had  moreover  partially  overcome  the  wasting  fight 
against  poverty  and  could  afford  to  give  up  the  tedium  of  daily 
instruction.  In  the  old  period  of  obscure,  unregarded  effort 
he  had  lived  first  in  the  rue  des  Secours  and  afterward  in  the 
rue  de  la  Consolation.  On  this  occasion  he  settled  in  the  rue 
Albert-Delatour,  also  in  the  district  of  Schaerbeek,  moving 
later  to  59  rue  de  PAbbaye.  Although  his  step  was  slower  and 
his  shoulders  drooped  beneath  the  double  weight  of  grief  and 
increasing  infirmity,  once  established  he  devoted  himself  afresh 
to  his  art,  completing  in  succession  *  Watering  a  Colliery 
Horse  '  for  the  square  Ambiorix,  and  a  *  Trinity  '  for  Notre 
Dame  du  Sablon  besides  several  single  figures  and  portrait- 
busts.  As  this  silent  army  of  toilers  slowly  assumed  their 
proper  places  in  the  long  perspective  of  his  art  Meunier  began 
to  perceive  that  unity  in  his  accomplishment  which  was  appar- 
ent to  all  interested  observers.  He  had  never  been  strong,  and 
realizing  that  his  days  were  numbered  dedicated  his  few  re- 
maining years  to  that  *  Momunent  to  Labour  '  which  is  his 
crowning  achievement  and  the  eloquent  synthesis  of  his  career. 
Conscious  of  the  vastness  of  the  project  he  sought  Government 
aid,  on  failing  to  obtain  which  he  undertook  the  task  himself 
piece  by  piece.  Unable  to  pay  for  marble  or  for  bronze  cast- 
ing, he  went  manfully  ahead  finishing  his  scheme  in  plaster. 
Dominated  by  the  colossal  figure  of  *  The  Sower,'  flanked  by 
four  reliefs  entitled  *  Industry,'  *  The  Mine,'  *  Commerce,'  and 
*  Harvest '  with  groups  about  the  base  depicting  *  Maternity  ' 
and  the  several  *  Trades,'  Constantin  Meunier 's  canticle  in 

[90] 


CONSTANTIN    MEUNIER 

praise  of  work  ranks  as  one  of  the  most  impressive  conceptions 
in  the  history  of  sculpture.  It  was  his  legacy  to  the  world,  and 
before  the  end  came  he  had  the  supreme  joy  of  knowing  that 
it  was  purchased  by  the  State  and  would  eventually  be  placed 
in  the  rotunda  of  the  new  museum  on  the  Mont  des  Arts. 

As  with  every  true  craftsman  Meunier's  task  was  left  un- 
finished.  The  monument  to  Emile  Zola  for  the  Tuileries  is  not 
in  place  and  other  commissions  were  barely  begun.  The  mes- 
sage of  his  art  none  the  less  remains  full  and  complete.  Even 
at  the  outset  there  was  no  mistaking  the  man's  meaning. 
Stripped  of  trivial  accident  and  exalted  to  a  plane  of  simplicity 
that  raises  them  beside  the  creations  of  any  age  these  types 
are  untrammelled  by  theory  or  thesis.  Meimier  never  dealt 
directly  in  generalities ;  he  approached  the  general  through  the 
particular.  He  gives  us  a  single  more  or  less  specialized  figure, 
and  if  that  figure  spontaneously  becomes  a  symbol  the  symboliz- 
ing process  is  as  much  our  own  as  his.  He  disavowed  all  in- 
tention, all  parti  pris.  He  claimed  no  rights  other  than  the 
right  to  pity  the  world's  disinherited  and  to  place  that  pity 
on  record.  When  recognition  finally  came  and  he  was  hailed 
as  the  creator  of  a  new  epoch  in  art,  as  the  founder  of  the  **  aes- 
thetics of  work  "  he  simply  looked  puzzled  and  exclaimed 
"  Why  what  can  they  all  see  in  my  poor  stuff?  "  Those  few 
enthusiasts  who  gathered  about  Constantin  Meunier  during  the 
late  'eighties  and  early  'nineties  and  those  fortunate  individuals 
who  attended  his  first  exhibitions  in  Brussels,  Paris,  and  Dres- 
den to-day  cherish  imforgettable  memories.  They  have  seen 
gropings  and  hesitations  end  in  a  grand,  though  troubled  tri- 
umph. They  have  watched  a  sustained  and  resolute  sym- 
metry issue  from  that  which  was  rough  and  tentative.  Above 
all,  they  have  witnessed  in  the  man  and  his  art  the  ascendency 
of  that  which  is  spiritual  over  that  which  is  material.  For 
sincerity,  intensity,  and  epic  dignity  the  bronzes  of  Meimier 

[91] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

stand  alone.  Though  explicit  in  subject,  they  share  affinities 
with  the  eternally  sculptural.  Meunier's  labourer  is  both  local 
and  immemorial.  He  taps  at  a  vein  or  pauses  before  a  pot 
of  molten  metal,  yet  he  embodies  universal  dynamic  laws. 

In  the  serene  and  buoyant  days  of  Greece  the  wrestler  and 
the  athlete  were  the  chief  exponents  of  motion.  Man  was  not 
a  sullen,  driven  beast,  he  was  acclaimed  in  the  Stadiiun.  Chris- 
tian art  taught  him  penance  and  renunciation,  taught  him  not 
to  immortalize  but  to  mortify  the  body.  With  Michelangelo 
he  became  a  surly  colossus  full  of  grandiose  inquietude,  and 
with  Clodion  a  white  and  wanton  boy.  In  recent  times  sculp- 
ture has  made  him  echo,  somewhat  feebly,  a  remote  antiquity 
or  chafe  against  a  ruthless  modernity.  The  specific  triumph  of 
Constantin  Meunier  consists  in  having  bridged  over  the  past, 
in  having  adapted  sovereign,  immutable  truths  to  actual  con- 
ditions. In  this  art,  which  appears  at  first  so  revolutionary,  he 
has  not  overthrown,  he  has  preserved,  the  lasting  canons  of 
plastic  beauty.  Gods  and  gladiators  have  merely  been  put 
into  harness.  Infolding  draperies,  soft  as  sea-foam  from  the 
Aegean,  have  been  exchanged  for  rough  blouse  and  leather 
apron.  Mercury  has  slipped  his  winged  heels  into  sabots;  the 
flexible  Discobolus  has  learned  to  swing  a  sledge.  It  is  not 
Venus,  it  is  Vulcan  whom  this  new  race  worships.  Being  but 
a  continuation  of  that  which  had  gone  before,  there  are  numer- 
ous correspondences  between  this  art  and  the  generous  sym- 
metry of  the  ancient  manner.  That  early  drama  of  action,  the 
Pergamum  frieze,  is  the  direct  prototype  of  Meunier  ^s  reliefs. 
Each  depicts  struggle,  the  one  simply  epitomizing  a  former 
phase  of  strife.  Weeping  Mobe  has  her  counterpart  in  the 
grief -stricken  mother  of  ^Fire-damp,'  and  the  *  Old  Mine 
Horse  '  is  but  an  abused  and  forlorn  Pegasus.  Coming  down 
to  the  Renaissance,  the  rider  in  *  Watering  a  Colliery  Horse  ' 
is  none  other  than  a  CoUeoni  of  the  people.    Over  all  Meunier's 

[92] 


fl     1 

a      1 

■*^      1 

n      1 

o      \ 

o     I 

>> 

ja 

•\      r 

»4 

S       - 

O 

ja 

o 

■4J 

c 

<u      :; 

s     = 

s    ; 

H 

o 

;?; 

^     ; 

CONSTANTIN    MEUNIER 

groups,  however  tense  and  concentrated  lingers  that  static  re- 
pose which  is  the  priceless  heritage  of  Hellas.  And  yet  this  art 
is  not  classic,  nor  Christian,  nor  modem;  it  is  all  three.  It 
illustrates  the  gradual  and  consistent  evolution  of  the  plastic 
principle. 

With  the  moral  aspect  of  aesthetics  Meunier  was  never  con- 
cerned. Though  his  message  is  manifestly  human  and  social, 
he  never  posed  as  a  man  with  a  mission.  He  was  content  to 
approach  life  in  the  concrete  leaving  press  and  public  draw 
whatever  conclusions  they  saw  fit.  There  is  of  course  a  certain 
affinity  between  Meimier's  miners  and  Millet's  peasants  in  the 
fields  about  Barbizon.  Though  representing  different  strata 
they  share,  each  of  them,  a  similar  community  of  inspiration. 
Each  shows  alike  the  stamp  of  that  endless  struggle  of  man 
against  natural  fatality.  Millet's  types  are,  however,  more  pa- 
thetic and  self -pitying ;  Meimier's,  more  resourceful  and  self- 
reliant.  While  every  statue,  every  bit  of  bronze  bears  in  some 
degree  the  burden  of  toil  and  the  burden  of  sorrow,  this  art  is 
not,  in  essence,  a  protest,  but  an  acceptance.  These  miners 
are  not  suppliants;  they  are  conquerors.  A  species  of  latent 
idealism  animates  their  every  movement.  They  rejoice  in 
labour  well  performed.  As  they  themselves  say,  **  Work  and 
the  Walloon  are  friends,"  and  it  is  this  note  that  Meimier 
strove  to  sound.  A  visionary  as  well  as  an  observer,  he  perhaps 
unconsciously  made  man  broad  and  universal  rather  than  nar- 
row and  individual.  His  art  is  the  deification  of  work.  Still, 
while  he  modified  life,  he  did  not  falsify  life.  He  simply 
gave  these  stalwart  man-gods  a  touch  more  heroism,  a  shade 
more  of  that  sombre,  restrained  splendour  with  which  they 
are  clothed.  An  august  majesty  accompanies  each  gesture. 
Work  with  them  has  become  a  solemn,  physical  ritual.  *  The 
Sower  '  is  biblical,  ^  The  Butcher  '  sacrificial,  and  that  dark 
line  of  homeward-swinging  figures  in  *  Returning  from  the 

[93] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

Mine  '  suggests  a  great  recessional  of  labour.  It  is  not  the  bare 
performance  of  a  given  task  which  this  art  expresses,  but  the 
eternal  continuity  of  corporate  endeavour.  These  men  are  not 
building  for  to-day  alone.  With  each  stroke  they  are  strength- 
ening the  solidarity  of  the  human  race. 

It  was  inevitable  that  these  modern  Atlantes,  who  seem  in 
truth  to  bear  upon  their  shoulders  the  entire  industrial  fabric 
of  to-day,  should  have  moved  in  triumph  from  city  to  city,  and 
that  their  modest,  reticent  sponsor  should  have  shared  their 
glory.  Although  for  years  his  existence  had  been  dark  and 
stressful  the  twilight  of  Meunier's  life  was  suffused  with  peace 
and  benignity.  When  at  length  he  had  a  home  which  he  could 
call  his  own  he  used  to  say,  with  touching  relief,  "  I  am  not 
afraid  now  when  the  door-bell  rings, '^  knowing  that  there  was 
no  further  danger  of  visits  from  creditor  or  bailiff.  Yet  the 
spectre  of  poverty  and  want  was  hard  to  dismiss  from  his  mind. 
Worn  and  almost  decrepit  he  would  often,  in  Paris  or  else- 
where, walk  long  distances,  forgetting  he  had  sufficient  money 
to  take  a  cab  whenever  he  wished.  While  a  constant  sufferer 
from  heart-trouble,  Meunier  laboured  on  with  Spartan  persist- 
ence. Though  he  had  grown  morose  and  irascible  toward  the 
last  there  was,  on  the  whole,  a  gentle  serenity  about  those  few, 
lingering  weeks.  The  studio  was  situated  in  a  quiet  subiu-b. 
Round  about  was  the  green  of  springtime,  the  brightness  of 
the  sun.  Pigeons  cooed  imder  the  eaves,  birds  carolled  in  the 
tree-tops  and  from  across  the  way  floated  snatches  of  song. 
With  that  singular  fitness  and  consistency  which  had  charac- 
terized his  entire  career  Meunier  died  on  the  very  month  and 
in  the  city  of  his  birth.  All  day  Monday,  3  April  1905,  he 
spent  working  on  the  figure  of  ^  Fecundity '  for  the  base  of 
the  Zola  monument.  He  retired  early,  rested  well,  and  by  seven 
the  following  morning  had  started  for  the  studio  when  he  was 
seized  with  a  spasm  of  suffocation  and  expired  peacefully  in 

[94] 


CONSTANTIN    MEUNIER 

the  arms  of  his  daughter  and  his  closest  friend,  the  landscape- 
painter,  Isidore  Verheyden. 

As  he  strolled  through  the  busy  squares  of  Brussels  or  along 
the  dim  by-streets  of  Louvain,  there  always  seemed  to  be  some- 
thing evangelical  about  Constantin  Meimier.  He  was  tall,  with, 
massive  head,  deep-set  grey  eyes,  and  brow  furrowed  witH 
ceaseless  effort  and  anxiety.  His  form  was  bent  as  by  some'v 
heavy  weight,  and  a  full,  apostolic  beard  covered  chin  and  chest. 
His  arms  were  uncommonly  long  and  his  movements  measured 
and  sweeping;  he  might  have  been  made  only  of  nerves  and 
bone.  As  a  rule  he  was  silent  and  reserved,  speaking  seldom 
and  to  the  point.  Meunier  was  in  no  degree  a  student,  prefer- 
ring, after  a  fatiguing  day's  modelling,  to  sit  quietly  within 
the  ever  narrowing  family  circle.  Painting  and  music  were 
among  the  few  subjects  he  cared  to  discuss.  Beethoven  and 
the  Italian  Primitives  he  revered,  though  he  had  scant  patience- 
with  the  false  sentiment  of  Raphael  or  the  carnal  exuberance 
of  Rubens.  Throughout  his  life  and  the  work  of  his  hands 
flowed  a  deep  and  tremulous  sympathy.  He  always  felt  the 
sense  of  tears  in  human  things.  His  art,  like  the  man  himself, 
is  profoundly  fraternal.  It  seems  to  palpitate  with  the  bene- 
diction, the  caress,  of  a  divine  pity — that  pity  which  came  into 
the  world  long  since  and  which  made  the  world  anew. 


[95] 


JAMES  McNeill  whistler 


JAMES  McNeill  whistler 

Portrait  of  the  artist  by  Fantin-Latour 

'[Collection  of  the  late  Samuel  P.  Avery;  courtesy  of  Sam.  P.  Avery,  Esq.] 


JAMES  McNeill  whistler 


IT  was  inevitable  that  the  teeming  world  of  actuality  claimed 
with  such  gusto  by  Gustave  Courbet  and  the  men  of  the 
mid-century  should  not  appeal  with  uniform  zest  to  all 
minds.  Although  with  stimulating  enthusiasm  the  progressive 
spirits  of  the  day  forsook  the  legendary  and  the  classic  and 
forswore  the  brown  tone  of  the  galleries,  each  found  in  nature 
something  different.  The  sum  of  creative  endeavour  was  not 
diminished,  it  was  turned  into  broader  channels.  It  spread 
itself  over  a  visible  land  of  fact  instead  of  invisible  regions  of 
myth  or  fable.  Fresh  points  of  view  and  new  objects  of  in- 
terest were  encountered  at  every  turn.  Before  long  the  whole- 
sale realism  preached  by  the  boisterous,  bull-necked  peasant 
of  Ornans  gave  place  to  a  selective  realism,  to  a  choice  based 
solely  upon  individual  predilection.  From  the  common  soil 
of  universal  acceptance  sprang  in  due  course  the  flowers  of 
personal  caprice.  By  a  natural  process  of  development  the 
principle  of  aristocracy  reasserted  itself.  As  it  chanced,  the 
most  aristocratic,  the  most  capricious,  and  the  most  personal 
of  these  selective  realists  did  not  come  from  France,  where  tra- 
dition was  still  covertly  worshipped  even  by  the  younger  paint- 
ers, but  from  overseas  where  tradition  was  unknown.  Like 
Courbet  alone,  who  had  arrived  unprejudiced  from  Franche- 
Comte  to  devote  himself  to  the  law,  James  McNeill  Whistler 
was  no  respecter  of  precedent,  nor  had  he  any  cause  to  be. 
In  point  of  fact  his  equipment  was  typically  American  and 

[99] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

national.  The  inquisitiveness,  the  independence,  and  the  seem- 
ing irreverence  of  his  nature  were  his  by  right  of  birth.  En- 
dowed with  finely  attuned  aesthetic  perceptions  and  an  unfail- 
ing sense  of  style  he  was  free  to  devote  his  gifts  to  whatever 
subject  he  saw  fit.  Though  it  was  his  good  fortune  to  have 
joined  that  gallant  little  band  of  reformers  which  included 
Manet,  Fantin-Latour,  Bonvin,  Bracquemond,  and  Legros  it  is 
more  than  likely  that  Whistler  would  have  developed  alone. 
Nothing  was  able  to  keep  him  from  his  favourite  themes. 
While  the  gentle  Fantin  gathered  strength  from  the  grave 
masters  of  the  past  Whistler  wandered  observantly  about  the 
streets.  He  went  to  the  Louvre  a  few  times  and  made  the  cus- 
tomary copies,  yet  he  much  preferred  stopping  at  the  pension 
in  the  rue  Dauphine  where  they  all  took  their  meals  and  using 
*  Bibi  Lalouette  '  for  a  model.  Later  on  not  a  few  of  his  con- 
temporaries were  amazed  at  the  spectacle  of  this  young  patri- 
cian of  art  pausing  before  a  fishstall  or  a  sweetshop  and 
sketching  an  old  dame  or  a  group  of  ragged  children.  Al- 
though his  aim  appeared  perverse  and  paradoxical  it  was  log- 
ical and  consistent.  He  was  merely  exercising  the  divine  priv- 
ilege of  every  man  to  depict  the  humble  and  the  lowly,  to  see 
beauty  in  all  things  here  below. 

Let  us  for  the  moment  put  aside  all  previous  ideas  of  Whis- 
tler. Let  us  forget  the  vapid  stories,  grotesque  theories,  and 
clumsy  misconceptions  with  which  he  has  so  long  been  sur- 
rounded. It  is  time  for  his  work  to  speak  for  itself  in  its  own 
subtle  and  persuasive  language.  It  is  enough  if  he  stand  there 
in  the  dim  studio  prompting  now  and  again,  or  pointing  the 
way  as  he  might  once  have  done  with  his  unclouded  clarity  and 
enthusiasm.  Why  has  this  man  who  took  such  deliberate  pains 
to  explain  himself  remained  a  puzzle,  and  an  enigma  ?  How  is 
it  possible  that  he  should  have  eluded  not  only  an  impertinent 
public,  but  his  friends  and  disciples  as  well?    Why  does  he 

[100] 


JAMES  McNeill  whistler 

always  retreat  nimbly  as  you  advance,  gliding  farther  and  far- 
ther into  the  distance  just  as  his  portraits  seem  to  dissolve  into 
their  vague  backgrounds,  their  matchless  envelope  of  mystery? 
The  answer  is  simplicity  itself.  It  lies  in  the  fact  that  Whistler 
is  usually  approached  from  without  instead  of  from  within. 
Nothing  could  be  more  dissimilar  than  the  Whistler  of  tradi- 
tion and  the  Whistler  of  truth.  Stripped  of  all  that  has  been 
foisted  upon  them  of  specious  and  foreign,  of  malicious  or 
frivolous,  the  man  and  his  art  shine  forth  in  spontaneous  unity. 
Instead  of  being  a  clever  mountebank,  he  was  a  mystic  and  a 
martyr.  Instead  of  being  careless  and  inconsequent  he  was  one 
of  the  most  scrupulous  incarnations  of  the  aesthetic  conscience 
ever  known.  It  is  marvellous  how  this  slender,  tenuous  crea- 
ture survived  those  years  of  opposition  and  obloquy,  and  that 
subsequent  period  of  adulation  and  overpraise.  He  succeeded 
in  doing  so  only  because  his  was  the  life  of  the  spirit,  because 
in  a  measure  he  possessed  the  austerity  of  Emerson,  the  self- 
detachment  of  Swedenborg.  You  will  doubtless  contend  that 
this  sounds  ecstatic.  You  may  find  it  difficult  to  associate  such 
ideas  with  the  Whistler  of  convention,  the  nonchalant  Whistler 
whose  very  existence  seemed  so  heedless,  and  who  left  behind 
so  much  that  appears  transitory  or  incomplete.  Yet  in  the  in- 
terest of  verity  let  us  judge  this  eager,  zealous  being  according 
to  his  own  standards.  Let  us  measure  him  by  his  own  accom- 
plishment. 

No  man  in  the  history  of  graphic  expression  has  excelled 
James  McNeill  Whistler  in  that  sensitiveness  to  optical  impres- 
sions which  alone  constitutes  the  bom  painter,  and  none  pre- 
sents a  more  consistent  example  of  artistic  purification.  He 
was  above  all  a  specialist  in  the  real.  With  the  gates  of  the  uni- 
verse standing  ajar  he  stepped  in  and  chose  only  those  few 
things  which  suited  his  particular  taste  and  temperament. 
Erom  the  outset  his  practice  was  to  eliminate,  to  simplify.    He 

[101] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

began  with  rich,  ahnost  robust  qualities.  He  loved  form,  col- 
our, and  contour  for  their  own  sake,  yet  one  by  one  he  re- 
nounced what  are  commonly  deemed  the  essentials  of  pictorial 
representation.  Little  by  little  his  art  became  fastidious  and 
evanescent,  the  merest  phantom  suggestion  of  fact.  Both  in 
landscape  and  in  his  treatment  of  the  figure  it  passed  through 
a  continual  process  of  etherealization.  Do  those  later  portraits, 
lingering  far  back  in  their  dull  gold  frames,  depict  actual  men 
and  women,  or  are  they  eloquent,  disembodied  souls?  Are 
these  vapoury  nocturnes  bits  of  Venice  and  the  Thames,  or  are 
they  but  the  magic  record  of  vagrant  impressions  ?  Is  this  sup- 
pressed radiance  the  glow  of  nature  or  the  powdered  dust  blown 
from  fairy  butterfly  wings'?  You  cannot  frame  a  valid  reply 
without  bearing  in  mind  the  fact  that,  though  Whistler  began 
a  realist,  he  ended  a  spiritist,  that  what  he  achieved  is  the  pur- 
est alchemy  of  art.  Let  us  then  follow  him  from  those  early 
Paris  days,  when  he  saw  so  lucidly  and  so  joyously,  to  the  deep- 
ening twilight  of  that  last  quiescent  hour  in  Chelsea  when  all 
he  had  seen  and  dreamed  melted  into  the  great,  encircling 
infinity. 

With  an  instinctive  feeling  that  such  details  in  themselves 
signify  little.  Whistler  adroitly  rebuffed  the  prying  nobodies 
who  delved  into  his  antecedents  and  youthful  associations.  He 
had  changed  his  name,  therefore  he  reserved  the  right  to  shift 
at  will  the  date  and  place  of  his  birth.  From  the  beginning  he 
displayed  an  imperious  contempt  for  externals.  It  was  the  idea 
which  attracted  him,  seldom  the  fact.  When,  after  a  whimsical 
militant  experience,  he  found  himself  in  the  French  capital,  it 
was  the  theory  of  realism  which  he  espoused  rather  than  its 
practice.  It  is  true  that  imder  the  direct  inspiration  of  Rem- 
brandt he  painted  certain  vigorous  portraits  including  those  of 
*  La  Mere  Gerard  '  and  the  one  of  himself  with  the  hat,  which 
recall  the  sober  Dutchman's  frank  energy  and  heavy,  oily  pal- 

[102] 


CopiiiKihf    vmr.  hi/  Frank  J.  HecHer 


HARMONY    IN    GREEN    AND    ROSE— THE    MUSIC    ROOM 

By  James  McNeill  Whistler 

[Courtesy  of  Colonel  Frank  J.  Hecker] 


JAMES  McNeill  whistler 

ette.  It  is  equally  obvious  that  Courbet  is  reflected  in  various 
coast  scenes,  and  Manet  in  Ms  *  Thames  in  Ice/  yet  these 
phases  were  transient  and  bore  little  relation  to  his  subsequent 
work.  Though,  attracted  by  the  man^s  expansive  vitality,  he 
spent  a  summer  or  so  with  Courbet,  his  real  friend  and  coim- 
seUor  was  Fantin,  the  modest  visionary  who  gazed  at  young 
girls  reading  or  embroidering,  at  the  whole  subdued  intimacy 
of  daily  life,  through  the  most  pervasive  soul-film  art  had  thus 
far  known.  There  was  a  distinct  mental  as  well  as  artistic  sym- 
pathy between  the  two  men.  Though  Whistler  shortly  crossed 
the  Channel,  the  influence  of  Fantin  persisted,  subtly  help- 
ing him  to  paint  his  *  At  the  Piano  '  so  full  of  rich  yet  quiet 
tonality,  so  infused  with  the  permeating  limpidity  of  atmos- 
phere, the  beauty  of  sentiment,  and  the  suggestion  of  softly 
played  melody.  From  Fantin,  too,  perhaps  came  the  idea  of 
characterizing  in  terms  of  music  those  later  and  still  more  in- 
sinuating harmonies  and  symphonies,  for  Fantin  was  himself 
already  dreaming  of  transposing  to  black  and  white  the  throb- 
bing utterances  of  Wagner,  Schumann,  Brahms,  and  Berlioz. 
The  entire  influence  of  Fantin  was  in  the  direction  of  a  rhyth- 
mic eloquence,  a  psychic  radiation  through  which  were  to 
emerge  the  plastic  shapes  of  an  ever  present  spirit  world.  It 
is  significant  to  note  how,  long  after  he  had  settled  in  London, 
Whistler  turned  to  Fantin  for  sympathy  and  encouragement. 
Although  he  had  achieved  relative  success  it  had  not  been 
without  corresponding  effort.  "  Tu-sais,"  he  wrote,  **  com- 
bien  j'ai  de  la  patience  et  combien  je  ne  quitte  jamais  ce  que 
j'ai  commence.^'  He  had  passed  but  a  couple  of  years  in 
Gleyre's  studio,  and  often  lamented  his  lack  of  systematic 
training.  **  Ah  I  Fantin,"  he  again  writes  with  endearing  hu- 
mility, ''  je  sais  si  pen!  les  choses  ne  vont  pas  vite!  "  Surely 
this  is  not  the  arrogant,  assertive  Whistler  of  popular  imagi- 
nation. 

[103] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

While  he  made  numerous  experiments  there  were  two  works 
of  his  formative  period  which  unmistakably  marked  the  Whis- 
tler of  the  future.  They  were  a  little  unfinished  etching  en- 
titled *  Isle  de  la  Cite,'  and  *  The  White  Girl,'  which  was  the 
feature  of  that  memorable  Salon  des  Refuses  which  witnessed 
the  triumph  of  the  new  over  the  old,  of  the  rejected  over  the 
accepted.  The  elusive  quality  of  the  later  etchings  and  the  de- 
liberately symphonic  arrangement  of  the  later  portraits  were 
each  there  in  embryo.  It  only  required  an  increasing  regard 
for  beauty  of  space  instead  of  beauty  of  line  in  the  one  case,  and 
a  more  restrained  psychic  mastery  in  the  other,  in  order  to  effect 
the  transformation.  Meantime  nothing  was  sacrificed  to  a 
hasty,  ill-prepared  onward  march.  He  was  still  to  imitate  with 
needle  the  light  and  shade  of  his  great  Amsterdam  prede- 
cessor in  such  plates  as  *  The  Kitchen  '  and  *  La  Vieille  aux 
Loques,'  and  to  trace  with  frank  crispness  and  force  the  coun- 
tenances of  *  Becquet '  and  *  Drouet,'  as  well  as  his  own  youth- 
ful head  crowned  with  masses  of  rebellious  hair.  The  clarity 
of  vision  and  surety  of  hand  increased,  even,  when  he  left  the 
by-streets  of  Paris  for  the  Thames-side,  where  humanity  was 
subordinated  to  those  views  of  wharves  and  warehouses,  sway- 
ing masts  and  tall  chimneys  standing  sharp  against  the  sky 
which  characterize  river  life  below  bridge.  Yet  just  as  he 
rarely,  for  intensity  of  colour  or  movement,  duplicated  the  viv- 
idness and  sweeping  vigour  of  *  The  Blue  Wave  '  breaking  on 
the  shore  of  Biarritz,  so  he  never  again  attempted  the  accurate 
tracery  of  ^  Billingsgate  '  or  *  Black  Lion  Wharf.'  They  are 
imique,  these  plates,  in  the  field  of  etching.  Never  have  needle 
and  copper  surface  been  used  with  such  skill  in  order  to  express 
nature's  baffling  intricacy.  The  particular  appeal  of  these  sub- 
jects lay  in  their  sprightly,  casual  verity.  Nowhere  was  there 
the  least  attempt  to  prettify  a  scene  or  to  provoke  sentiments 
other  than  aesthetic.    They  exalted  the  incidental,  the  indiffer- 

[104] 


JAMES  McNeill  whistlee 

ent.  They  surprised  charm  in  a  bargee  sitting  in  his  scow,  in 
a  dog  straying  across  the  street.  They  were  all  enchanting  in 
their  impoetical  poetry. 

Years  later  in  Venice  when  he  turns  to  etching  again  after 
those  tender,  pensive  dry-points  of  the  Leyland  sisters,  of 
*  Weary,'  and  *  Reading,'  Whistler  is  a  different  man.  He  has 
ceased  to  care  for  the  same  effects.  That  definition  of  outline 
which  was  the  triumph  of  the  earlier  work  has  vanished.  You 
cannot  put  your  finger  on  the  walls  or  crumbling  cornices  of 
these  palaces  along  the  Grand  Canal.  They  appear  before  you 
iridescent  and  ephemeral,  or  stretch  in  thin  lines  across  the  dis- 
tant horizon.  You  never  see  figures  at  close  range  as  the  two 
rivermen  puffing  their  clay  pipes  in  *  Rotherthithe.'  Infinitesi- 
mal specks  of  personality  flit  by  the  Riva ;  gondolas  glide  to  and 
fro  in  the  twilight ;  here  rises  a  campanile,  there  looms  a  slender 
mast  or  the  bulbous  dome  of  La  Salute;  all  is  magical  in  its 
freedom,  its  feather  lightness  of  touch.  With  refreshing  inde- 
pendence he  ignores  the  Venice  of  convention,  the  Venice  of 
Canaletto,  and  of  Turner,  and  goes  about  ferreting  out  odd  bits 
full  of  tattered  individuality.  Now  and  then  you  pause  before 
an  entranceway  or  glance  into  a  garden  or  courtyard,  merely 
the  better  to  grasp  the  contrasting  vagueness  and  remote,  illu- 
sory splendour  of  the  Water  City.  Do  not  imagine,  however, 
because  Whistler  transcribed  less  at  each  stage  of  his  develop- 
ment, that  he  saw  less,  that  his  powers  of  observation  in  any 
degree  abated.  The  truth  is  he  kept  discerning  more  and  more. 
He  discovered  nuances  which  were  indescribably  difficult  to 
perceive,  and  these  he  recorded  with  equal  assurance  and  vi- 
vacity. He  was  not  etching  in  the  customary  painstaking  man- 
ner of  the  linearist,  he  was  literally  painting  on  copper.  With 
each  step  forward  he  acquired  increased  facility  and  increased 
precision  of  pattern.  He  was  accomplishing,  in  fact,  with  his 
etcher's  needle  just  what  certain  simpler  folk  near  by  were 

[105] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

doing.  He  was  attaining  the  dexterity  of  those  lace-makers  he 
must  often  have  seen  bending  over  their  frames  in  sunlit  door- 
way or  seated  by  a  quiet  window.  His  art  had  become  the  slen- 
derest of  filaments. 

The  Whistler  of  the  etchings,  lithographs,  and  pastels  will 
always  remain  the  Whistler  for  those  of  attenuated  prefer- 
ences. It  is  the  creator  of  the  *  Mother,*  *  Carlyle,'  *  Rosa 
Corder,'  and  *  Miss  Alexander  *  who  attracts  broader,  more 
diverse  minds.  In  painting  he  passed  through  the  same  pro- 
cess of  renunciation  as  in  the  strictly  graphic  arts.  During  the 
period  when  he  was  feeling  his  way  with  almost  tragic  earnest- 
ness he  was  not  above  accepting  assistance  from  the  outside, 
and  considering  his  lack  of  serious  training  it  could  hardly 
have  been  otherwise.  Behind  the  tremulous  aspiration  of  *  At 
the  Piano,'  Fantin,  as  we  know,  nods  in  grateful  recognition 
and  approval.  Beside  *  The  White  Girl '  and  the  *  Princesse 
du  Pays  de  la  Porcelaine  '  lingers  the  luxuriantly  sensuous 
Rossetti,  while  over  those  two  maidens  in  a  *  Symphony  in 
White,  No.  3  '  Albert  Moore  has  cast  a  spell  of  that  same 
classic  immobility  and  mellowness  which  was  wafted  from  the 
shores  of  Sicily  and  the  isles  of  the  Aegean.  From  print  and 
shop  front  he  caught  bewitching  glimpses  of  Japan,  and  in 
the  Louvre  stood  reverently  before  the  sweeping  line  and 
silver-grey  vibrancy  of  Velazquez.  Each  separate  factor  con- 
tributed to  his  approaching  maturity.  He  selected  this,  he 
assimilated  that,  fusing  all  into  his  inherently  personal  and 
exclusive  vision.  Yet  it  was  only  the  least  hint  that  he  re- 
quired in  order  to  go  farther  in  certain  directions  than  any- 
one had  gone.  He  took  little  indeed  considering  what  he  gave 
in  return. 

Nothing  is  more  illuminating  than  to  watch  how,  through 
an  almost  frenzied  self -chastisement,  he  attained  the  spiritual 
height  and  artistic  restraint  of  the  ^  Mother  *  and  the  *  Carlyle  ' 

[106] 


Copyright.  lOOS,  by  Ji.  A.  Canfield 


Xdll  \\ 


0    G  REE X-  PORTRAIT 

flkaflbb  A80fl  aaiM  lo  tiahtho^i 


p'/  //,  ,1.  rnnfi<-l 


ARRANGEMENT  IN  BLACK  AND  BROWN- 
PORTRAIT  OF  MISS  ROSA  CORDER 

By  James  McNeill  Whistler 

[Courtesy  of  R.  A.  Canfield,  Esq.] 


HARMONY    IN    GREY    AND    GREEN— PORTRAIT 
OF    CICELY    HENRIETTA,    MISS    ALEXANDER 

By  James  McNeill  Whistler 

[Courtesy  of  W.  C.  Alexander,  Esq.] 


JAMES  McNeill  whistler 

portraits.  It  was  not  long  before  he  shrank  in  disgust  from 
the  emphatic  impasto  of  the  Dutchmen  and  the  truculence  of 
Courbet.  His  colouring  became  more  fluid,  more  volatile,  and 
less  positive.  He  left  behind  without  a  sign  of  regret  the  rose- 
tinted  azaleas  clustering  beside  his  *  Little  White  Girl '  and 
the  bright,  full-keyed  brilliance  of  *  The  Music  Room  '  with  its 
refined,  instantaneous  figures,  shaded  reading-lamp,  flowered 
chintz  curtains,  and  porcelain  vase  reflected  in  the  clear  mirror. 
It  was  doubtless  with  somewhat  easier  conscience  that  he  for- 
sook such  complicated  Japanese  arrangements  as  *  Die  Lange 
Leizen,  of  the  Six  Marks,'  *  The  Golden  Screen,'  and  *  The 
Balcony,'  which  could  scarcely  have  meant  more  to  him  than 
studies  in  decorative  distribution.  Nor  was  it  long  before  he 
maintained  that  *  The  Balcony  '  as  well  as  his  *  Princesse  du 
Pays  de  la  Porcelaine  '  incased  in  her  blue  and  gold  Peacock 
Room  were  wrong  in  principle; — **  Too  much  elaborated," 
he  insisted,  **  not  nearly  simple  enough."  Only  once,  in  *  The 
Music  Room,'  did  he  give  a  carefully  externalized  transcription 
of  fact,  for  *  The  Balcony  '  on  which  these  fantastic  dolls  are 
grouped  was  but  the  balcony  of  his  own  house.  He  did  not  even 
add  an  imaginary  profile  of  Fuji  towering  in  the  distance,  but 
let  us  see  the  winding  river  with  its  dimly  outlined  warehouses 
and  scattered  shipping.  And  after  all  it  mattered  little,  for 
he  soon  cleansed  himself  of  an  exotic  orientalism.  He  soon 
began  to  rely  upon  his  own  infinitely  more  precious  heritage, 
to  express  things  in  their  briefest  terms,  to  paint  as  it  were  with 
the  penetrant  intensity  of  thought  alone. 

It  was  not  through  gifts  wholly  artistic  that  Whistler  was 
able  to  conceive  the  *  Mother  '  and  the  *  Carlyle.'  It  was  also 
by  grace  of  qualities  fundamentally  intellectual  and  spiritual. 
The  basis  of  the  man's  nature  was  moral,  and  the  moral  instinct 
had  gradually  become  merged  into  the  aesthetic.  In  all  matters 
he  was  a  purist.     His  numerous  quarrels  were  questions  of 

[107] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

principle,  not  the  splenetic  vagaries  of  a  tantalizing  egotist. 
Art  was  his  religion,  and  for  his  artistic  faith  he  was  prepared 
to  make  any  sacrifice.  In  his  inimitable  fashion,  yet  with  deep 
sincerity,  he  formulated  his  own  Ten  Commandments,  his  own 
Tables  of  the  Law.  You  cannot  gaze  at  these  two  canvases 
without  feeling  that  they  represent  a  fusion  of  morality  and 
mentality  exceptional  in  the  annals  of  art.  The  abstract  rea- 
soning of  his  engineer-mathematician  father  and  the  piety  of 
his  mother  were  curiously  blended  in  Whistler's  making.  The 
*  Mother  '  seated  in  that  subdued  room,  her  hands  folded,  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  invisible,  is  more  than  an  *  Arrangement 
in  Grey  and  Black,  *  more  even,  than  an  adagio  of  old  age.  She 
belongs  to  the  epoch  of  the  transcendentalists.  She  is  the  in- 
carnation of  that  religious  mysticism  which  had  crossed  the 
ocean  years  before  to  find  a  new  home  in  a  new  land.  It  is  easy 
to  imagine  her  having  written  in  her  diary  during  that  divert- 
ing St.  Petersburg  period  after  her  sons  had  been  up  late  the 
night  before  watching  the  illuminations; — ^^  My  boys  did  not 
take  their  breakfast  till  noon  Friday ;  this  is  surely  not  keeping 
the  straight  and  narrow  way."  Although  puzzled  at  times  in 
after  years  she  must  have  felt  that  her  **  darling  Jimmie  "  was, 
despite  all,  keeping  with  precision  the  straight  and  narrow 
way.  She  at  any  rate  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  dur- 
ing her  lifetime  he  seldom  touched  brush  or  canvas  on  Sundays. 
When  asked  once  why  he  did  not  work  on  the  first  day  of  the 
week  he  replied  simply; — **  Because  I  promised  my  mother  I 
would  not."  It  is  true  that  he  prided  himself  on  being  a  debo- 
nair Continental.  In  point  of  fact  he  was  American,  and  Puri- 
tan, to  the  heart's  core. 

You  will  as  readily  agree  that  no  one  who  was  not  himself 
something  of  a  Covenanter  could  have  painted  the  *  Carlyle  '  as 
you  will  that  no  one  whose  sympathies  were  not  of  the  most  ex- 
quisite fibre  could  have  revealed  to  us  little  *  Miss  Cicely  Hen- 

[108] 


JAMES  McNeill  whistler 

rietta  Alexander  *  waiting  there  in  delicate  white  and  grey,  a 
black  bow  in  her  hat,  a  black  ribbon  in  her  hair,  a  pair  of 
butterflies  flitting  above  her  head  and  a  spray  of  daisies  peep- 
ing out  beside  her.  Nothing  Whistler  has  ever  done  quite 
approaches  this  gracious,  hesitant  apparition.  The  foremost 
galleries  of  the  world  can  show  nothing  more  lovely,  more  ap- 
pealing, or  more  sensitive.  All  he  had  been  striving  for  was 
there  at  last.  All  he  had  written  to  Fantin  in  despair  of  achiev- 
ing had  been  achieved.  With  a  line  as  sure  as  that  of  Velaz- 
quez, and  a  surface  as  smooth  as  the  finest  lacquer,  he  impris- 
oned at  the  moment  and  for  all  time  this  modem  Infanta,  this 
slender  slip  of  latter-day  culture  and  civilization.  While  the 
*  Mother  '  and  the  *  Carlyle  '  mark  the  climax  of  his  austerity 
of  statement, '  Miss  Alexander  '  pauses  wistfully  on  the  thresh- 
old of  this  kingdom  where  actuality  was  almost  to  attain  the 
vanishing  point.  She  suggests,  in  a  sense,  both  prophecy  and 
regret.  Perhaps  she  is  even  pleading  with  the  painter  not  to 
venture  farther  into  shadowland.  However  that  may  be,  he 
was  not  to  heed  her  unconscious  warning.  Never  again  do  we 
see  such  pearl-like  luminosity  of  tone  and  such  caressing  cer- 
tainty of  contour.  Black,  the  imiversal  harmonizer,  herewith 
begins  to  spread  its  sombre,  aristocratic  allure  over  figure  and 
background.  Henceforth  we  move  silently  into  a  realm  of  half 
lights,  of  suggested  colour,  and  undefined  form.  Mutely  re- 
signed, *  Rosa  Corder  ^  stands  tall  and  impassive,  her  plumed 
hat  hanging  at  her  side,  her  body  turned  more  than  half  around 
— ^black,  in  an  atmosphere  almost  as  black.  Slipping  on  her 
glove  ready  to  depart,  *  Lady  Archibald  Campbell  *  smiles  enig- 
matically as  she  beckons  us  into  the  enfolding  gloom.  Amid 
lyric  nothingness  *  Comte  Robert  de  Montesquiou-Fezensac  ' 
recites  verses  faintly  articulate,  while  from  the  near-by  music 
room  float  the  strains  of  *  Sarasate^s  '  violin.  They  are  chil- 
dren of  the  mind  and  creatures  of  the  nerves,  these  beautiful, 

[109] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

impalpable  beings.  They  are  but  inventories  of  personality. 
Resemblance  comits  for  little,  yet  each  is  sufficiently  individu- 
alized, each  vibrates  with  life  and  truth,  a  truth  less  physical, 
however,  than  psychic.  As  you  glance  from  one  to  another  the 
body  appears  to  recede,  the  soul  to  glide  forward,  inviting  con- 
fidence and  understanding.  So  fluid  and  incorporeal  are  they 
in  substance  that  they  seem,  one  and  all,  to  live,  move,  and 
have  their  being  in  liquid  air. 

On  approaching  the  final  phase  of  Whistler's  work  it  is  nec- 
essary to  renounce  all  preconceptions  of  painting.  Subject, 
direct,  or  even  approximate  transcription  of  nature,  and  what 
is  called  incident,  rapidly  disappear.  A  chance  mood,  a  casual 
impression,  an  evasive  allusion,  these  are  all  that  remain. 
Along  the  river-bank  in  *  Pink  and  Grey — Chelsea  '  pass  and 
repass  vague,  detached  silhouettes.  A  few  scattered,  spectral 
figures  stroll  about  the  *  Cremome  Gardens  '  listening  to  the 
music  and  watching  the  flicker  of  countless  lights ;  but  soon  you 
are  alone  with  nought  save  the  mystery  and  the  magic  of  night. 
Still  this  turquoise-blue  immensity  is  never  quite  without  its 
note  of  contrast,  its  touch  of  emotional  relief.  You  can  hear 
long  waves  breaking  on  the  shore,  see  the  gleam  from  ships  rid- 
ing softly  at  anchor,  or  watch  for  an  instant  the  suspended  in- 
candescence of  a  bursting  rocket.  Here  again  no  one  has  at- 
tempted effects  so  illusive.  As  a  painter  of  night  he  never  had 
a  rival  save  perhaps  Hiroshige.  It  is  only  when  you  consider 
the  penetration  of  sight  and  deftness  of  stroke  which  this  art 
exacts  that  you  begin  to  imderstand  what  a  consummate  crafts- 
man Whistler  was.  Nothing  could  baffle  him.  Nothing  could 
elude  his  refinement  of  perception  and  his  supreme  ease  of 
presentation.  It  is  precisely  because  it  was  Whistler's  constant 
aim  to  immaterialize  painting  that  he  was  able  to  get  closer  and 
closer  to  the  hidden  secrets  of  nature.  Faint  and  delicate  as 
these  little  panels  are  they  are  vital  fragments  of  the  great,  pul- 

[110] 


Copyright ,  1000,  by  The  London  Art  Puhlishers 


THE    LADY    WITH    THE    YELLOW    BUSKIN— PORTRAIT 
OF    LADY    ARCHIBALD    CAMPBELL 

By  James  McNeill  Whistler 

[Wilstach  Gallery,  Memorial  Hall,  Philadelphia] 


JAMES  McNeill  whistler 

sating  world-process.    They  are  not  bits  of  still-life.    They  are 
the  breath  of  the  infinite. 

Reviewing  in  turn  this  succession  of  nocturnes,  harmonies, 
symphonies,  and  arrangements,  so  full  of  suppressed  colour 
and  almost  audible  melody,  so  intangible,  so  subliminal,  it  is 
difficult  not  to  feel  that  Whistler  must  have  enlisted  qualities 
hitherto  unknown  to  painting.  Instinctively  you  recall  the  sto- 
ries of  Poe,  of  which  the  artist  was  so  fond.  Spontaneously  the 
memory  travels  back  to  those  early  London  days,  and  to  the 
tiny  cottage  in  Walham  Green  where  he  used  to  busy  himself 
with  table-turning  and  spirit-rapping  or  sit  up  all  night  with 
Rossetti  discussing  things  which  lay  across  the  borderland  of 
knowledge.  With  inexorable  logic  he  passed  through  the  three 
phases  of  observation,  interpretation,  and  suggestion.  That 
hypnotic  faculty  which  was  apparent  long  ago  in  '  The  White 
Girl,*  who  stands  as  though  entranced  upon  an  outstretched 
wolf  skin,  increased  rather  than  diminished  as  time  went  on. 
Only  in  rare  instances  has  he  used  more  than  one  figure,  for  he 
soon  came  to  realize  that  a  psychic  state  can  best  be  concentrated 
in  a  single  object.  His  habits  were  abstemious,  his  nature  was 
ascetic,  and  as  he  drifted  through  the  increasing  years  he  put 
aside  all  that  appeals  to  the  lust  of  the  eye  and  the  pride  of  life. 
He  grew  indifferent  to  the  pageant  of  external  brilliancy  roimd 
about  him.  He  came  to  see  everything  through  the  grey  fogs 
of  London  and  the  veiled  mists  of  the  brain.  As  he  pressed 
lightly  and  eagerly  forward  he  simply  jotted  down  what  he 
found  in  this  imcharted  land.  Out  of  the  encroaching  darkness 
he  rescued  a  few  faces,  a  few  vague  shadowgraphs.  Bloodless, 
almost  formless,  deprived  of  all  save  the  bare  consciousness  of 
identity,  his  phantom  portraits  haunt  the  mind  with  cruel  per- 
sistence. An  indefinable  pathos  enshrouds  each  character. 
They  do  not  move.  They  stand  gazing  plaintively  at  the  un- 
seen.   Are  they  sad  because  they  have  been  banished  from  the 

[111] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

bright,  throbbing  existence  which  they  once  knew — ^because, 
though  finding  their  own  salvation,  they  have  lost  the  whole 
world? 

It  has  occurred  to  many  that  the  painter  may  have  made  too 
great  a  sacrifice  in  the  attainment  of  an  abstract,  impersonal 
art.  The  thought  is  immature,  for  he  could  not  have  done  other 
than  he  has  done.  He  was  impelled  by  the  law  of  his  being  to 
follow  the  course  marked  out  for  him  to  its  inevitable  conclu- 
sion. It  is  easy  to  maintain  that  these  arabesques  which  he  so 
fluently  traced  are  isolated  and  lacking  in  human  application. 
Yet  it  must  be  remembered  that  their  author  possessed  some- 
thing of  that  inhumanity  which  is  the  bitter  portion  of  all  ideal- 
ists, and  that  heredity  imprints  its  insignia  alike  upon  the 
world  of  beauty  as  upon  the  world  of  biology.  Only  in  its  early 
phases  was  this  art  in  any  degree  healthy  or  joyous.  In 
its  final  stages  it  was  clearly  the  product  of  a  species  of  emo- 
tional erethismus.  It  was  Whistler's  fond  assumption  that  he 
had  succeeded  in  establishing  a  definite  parallelism  between 
painting  and  music.  The  idea  was  not  original  with  him,  it  had 
already  fascinated  numerous  minds,  and  though  he  came  closer 
to  its  solution  than  any  one,  the  problem  remains  imsolved  and 
insoluble.  That  which  he  did  accomplish  was  the  legitimate 
conquest  of  fresh  territory  for  his  own  particular  medium. 
The  battle-cry  of  **  Vive  la  Nature! ''  which  rang  inspiringly 
throughout  the  stressful  years  of  the  nineteenth  century  closes 
diminuendo,  in  a  whisper,  almost,  with  the  contribution  of 
James  McNeill  Whistler.  The  cherished  traditions  of  former 
times  have  vanished  as  in  the  night.  Painting  has  here  ceased 
to  depict  the  glories  of  the  past  or  the  insistent  realties  of  the 
present.  It  appeals  no  longer  to  the  imagination,  to  sentiment, 
or  to  the  intellect.  It  plays  directly  upon  the  nerves,  the  chief 
possession,  or  affliction,  of  these  restless  modem  days.  You  may 
not  fancy  a  universe  stripped  of  all  save  a  series  of  psychic  ema- 

[112] 


JAMES  McNeill  whistler 

nations.  You  may  not  relish  this  power  which  art  has  so  lately 
and  so  dearly  won.  It  is  none  the  less  impossible  to  hold  that 
Whistler's  work  is  ever  wanting  in  sheer  beauty  or  persuasive 
evocation.  And  above  all  it  is  impossible  not  to  realize  that 
before  he  passed  away  that  lingering  summer  afternoon  he  had 
with  his  sensitive,  nervous  fingers  imlocked  a  new  and  secret 
chamber  of  the  soul. 


[113] 


FRANZ  VON  LENBACH 


FATHER    AND    CHILD 

Portrait    of  Franz  von  Lenbach  and  his  daughter  Marion^  by  the  artist 

[Possession  of  the  Lenbach  family,  Munich^ 


FRANZ  VON  LENBACH 


DURING  the  past  generation  the  eyes  of  the  world  have 
for  more  reasons  than  one  been  turned  toward  Ger- 
many. Whether  viewed  with  admiration  or  with  ap- 
prehension Teutonic  ascendency  is  rapidly  becoming  a  possi- 
bility. Few  countries  have  boasted  a  similar  combination  of 
political,  intellectual,  and  economic  progress  as  that  which  has 
marked  Germany's  onward  march  since  the  Franco-Prussian 
war.  On  lines  laid  down  by  the  Iron  Chancellor,  and  modified 
by  circumstance,  the  various  independent  states  have  been 
welded  into  a  single  empire  and  advancement  in  every  direction 
has  been  assured.  Little  by  little  the  imperial  idea,  the  idea  of 
national  unity,  and  the  idea  of  world  power,  if  not  world  su- 
premacy, have  carried  all  before  them.  It  has  become  necessary, 
within  the  past  few  years,  to  revise  the  conventional  opinion 
of  Germany  and  of  the  German,  for  fundamental  changes  have 
taken  place  in  both.  The  flow  of  gold  from  across  the  frontier 
has  inflated  public  pride  as  well  as  the  public  purse.  The  senti- 
mentalist and  the  metaphysician  have  been  superseded  by  the 
clear-headed,  energetic  utilitarian.  Romance  has  been  discarded 
for  reality,  and  everywhere  is  visible  that  regulation  of  human 
activity  which  has  produced  such  significant  results.  In  science, 
in  philosophy,  in  letters,  and  in  art  the  same  spirit  is  manifest. 
A  magnificent  system  has  been  devised,  a  system  upon  the 
stability  of  which  the  future  of  the  country  reposes.  That  this 
system  is  invincible  remains  to  be  proved ;  that  its  sponsors  be- 

[117] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

lieve  it  to  be  so  is  indisputable.  It  has  naturally  taken  remark- 
able men  in  every  walk  of  life  to  erect  this  austere  temple  of  the 
will,  this  structure  which  is  literally  composed  of  blood  and  iron. 
Fortunately  for  the  future  student  there  exists  an  unexampled 
portrait  gallery  of  the  makers  of  modern  Germany.  Sombre 
and  impressive,  speaking  the  ruthless  language  of  the  present 
in  the  measured  accents  of  the  past,  this  series  of  likenesses  is 
the  work  of  a  single  individual,  a  painter  who  seemed  destined 
by  nature  for  the  fulfillment  of  his  particular  task.  Even  in  the 
field  of  art,  so  replete  with  exceptional  personalities,  Franz  von 
Lenbach  is  a  conspicuous  figure.  Everything  contributed  to  his 
success.  He  came  upon  the  scene  at  the  precise  moment  when 
his  presence  counted  for  the  most  and  used  his  gifts  without 
fear  or  without  stint.  His  very  defects,  which  were  not  incon- 
siderable, redounded  to  his  favour.  He  knew  everyone  of  con- 
sequence during  a  long  and  industrious  career  and  left  behind 
the  most  comprehensive  record  of  his  time  which  any  portrait- 
painter  has  thus  far  placed  to  his  credit. 

Half  boor  and  half  courtier,  this  aggressive  son  of  an  obscure 
Bavarian  artisan  forced  his  way  into  all  classes  of  society  and 
managed  so  closely  to  identify  himself  with  the  special  spirit 
and  the  principal  personalities  of  his  day  that  he  will  ever  re- 
main the  graphic  historian  of  nineteenth-century  German. 
One  by  one  the  chief  actors  in  that  world  drama  which  wit- 
nessed the  rise  of  one  great  nation  and  the  temporary  humilia- 
tion of  another,  were  painted  by  the  rigorous  analyst  to  whom 
beauty  of  colour  was  naught  and  character  was  everything. 
Judged  according  to  severe  artistic  standards  Lenbach  reveals 
serious  shortcomings.  As  an  interpreter  of  the  mind  his  equals 
have  been  few.  Notable  among  the  merits  of  these  solemn,  mo- 
mentous likenesses  are  their  intellectual  insight  and  their  ear- 
nest dignity  of  intent.  At  his  best  the  painter  depicted  each 
sitter  with  a  surety  of  purpose  and  a  singleness  of  effect  which 

[118] 


FRANZ     VON     LENBACH 

place  him  among  the  master  physiognomists.  While  his  tran- 
scriptions of  both  man  and  woman  are  restricted  and  summary, 
for  intensity  of  penetration  they  stand  alone.  From  their  dark 
backgrounds,  as  from  the  dubious  unknown,  these  statesmen  and 
scientists,  these  musicians  and  poets,  look  with  compelling  fixity 
and  truth.  Unlike  Bonnat  whose  portraits  are  but  glorified 
still-life,  Lenbach  cared  little  for  definition  of  contour.  No  dis- 
tracting details  mar  the  simplicity  of  these  canvases.  He  either 
could  not  or  did  not  choose  to  catch  the  sheen  of  satin  or  the 
steel-grey  of  broadcloth.  Costume  had  scant  charm  for  one  who 
had  seen  so  much  rich  attire,  so  many  glittering  uniforms. 
Faces  only  he  painted  with  force  and  vividness,  the  rest  of  the 
body  being  treated  with  indifference.  The  hands,  even,  are 
neglected,  but  about  compressed  lips  and  brooding  brow  cluster 
the  minute,  infallible  indices  of  individuality.  It  is  however 
the  eyes  of  Lenbach 's  subjects  which  tell  the  final  story  of  that 
which  lies  within,  for  he  succeeded  as  few  artists  have  ever  done 
in  making  the  eyes  the  veritable  refiex  of  personality.  He  reck- 
oned only  with  what  he  believed  to  be  the  inner  consciousness, 
and  of  this  gave  a  synthesis.  Rembrandt,  Moroni,  and  Lorenzo 
Lotto  are  here  his  prototypes. 

In  glancing  over  this  array  of  portraits  both  national  and 
international  it  is  fruitless  to  look  for  intimate  grace  or  delicate, 
aristocratic  allure.  There  is,  it  is  true,  a  clever  semblance  of 
such  qualities,  yet  this  big,  angular  creature  never  learned  to 
read  aright  the  mysteries  of  a  woman's  heart.  Although  he 
painted  many  of  the  most  beautiful  beings  of  the  day,  the  mun- 
dane distinction  and  nervous  dexterity  of  Sargent  or  Mehoffer 
were  beyond  his  grasp.  It  is  in  his  likenesses  of  Bismarck 
and  of  Moltke,  of  combative,  conscience-tortured  Gladstone,  of 
doubting  Bollinger,  of  Heyse,  serene  high-priest  of  beauty,  and 
Bocklin,  brother  spirit  of  faun  and  sea-sprite,  that  Lenbach 
achieved  undisputed  triumphs.    Man  he  knew  and  early  learned 

[119] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

to  fix  upon  canvas.  Womanhood,  and  in  a  sense  childhood,  al- 
ways baffled  him.  The  feminine  enigma  remained  to  the  last 
insoluble.  Save  in  its  beginnings  the  career  of  this  large,  simian 
creature  with  sandy  hair,  huge  hands,  and  beetle-like  brow,  re- 
calls the  princely  days  of  Titian,  Rubens,  and  van  Dyck.  From 
a  poor  apprentice  he  placed  himself  on  a  level  with  the  exalted 
ones  of  the  earth.  Devoid  of  any  save  the  most  rudimentary 
training,  he  nevertheless  forced  his  contemporaries  to  read  his- 
tory, almost,  through  his  versions  of  those  who  made  history. 
Born  in  an  isolated  workman's  cottage  he  lived  in  palaces  and 
died  in  a  superbly  appointed  villa.  Franz  von  Lenbach's  phe- 
nomenal rise  in  the  world  was  due  to  a  conjunction  of  two  quali- 
ties— courage  and  opportunity.  From  the  outset  neither  was 
lacking,  nor  did  either  ever  desert  him. 

This  painter  of  emperor  and  pope,  of  chancellor  and  field- 
marshal,  of  grande  dame,  great  actress,  or  sinuous,  sense-dis- 
turbing dancer,  first  saw  light  on  13  December  1836,  at  Schro- 
benhausen,  an  otherwise  imimportant  village  midway  between 
Ingoldstadt  and  Augsburg,  some  forty  miles  from  Munich.  One 
of  seventeen  children,  his  father  promptly  destined  him  for  the 
paternal  calling,  that  of  a  stonemason  and  builder,  whose  modest 
fee  was  one  florin  for  drawing  the  plans  of  a  peasant's  cottage. 
With  this  end  in  view  the  boy  was  sent,  at  the  age  of  eleven,  to 
the  Industrial  School  at  Landshut  where  he  was  noted  for  high 
spirits  and  a  mischief -loving  temperament.  Until  his  father's 
death  Franz  followed  the  trade  of  a  mason,  but  later,  through 
the  strictest  economy  on  the  part  of  his  family,  was  enabled  to 
attend  the  Pol3i;echnic  Institute  of  Augsburg  where  his  talents 
developed  with  singular  rapidity.  He  studied  drawing,  learned 
the  theory  and  practice  of  engraving,  and  above  all  was  fas- 
cinated by  the  old  masters  in  the  Augsburg  Museum  certain  of 
which  he  copied  with  reverent  fidelity.  The  son  of  outdoor  folk 
he  was  fond  of  spending  as  much  time  as  possible  in  the  open, 

[120] 


GENERAL    FIELD-MARSHAL    COUNT    von    MOLTKE 

By  Franz  von  Lenbach 

[Possession  of  the  von  Moltke  family] 


ERANZ     VON     LENBACH 

and  on  Sundays  and  holidays  went  about  sketching  from  nature, 
his  companion  being  a  young  button-moulder  who  likewise 
boasted  artistic  aspirations.  On  leaving  the  Polytechnic  he 
passed  some  years  at  Schrobenhausen,  being  much  in  the  com- 
pany of  Hofner,  of  Aresing,  a  kindly,  superannuated  devotee  of 
peasant  life,  who  did  much  to  further  the  lad's  ambition  to  be- 
come a  painter.  The  struggle  was  a  severe  one,  for  his  early 
efforts  brought  but  slender  recompense  and  he  moreover  suf- 
fered from  a  serious  affliction  of  the  eyes.  He  painted  both 
landscape  and  portraits,  being  especially  attracted  by  the  prim- 
itive types  which  he  met  along  the  roadway,  in  the  fields,  or  at 
the  village  inn.  His  price  per  portrait  was  one  gulden,  and 
when  he  painted  family  groups  he  did  not  fare  so  badly,  families 
in  the  vicinity,  being,  like  his  own,  notably  large. 

Lenbach  wavered  at  first  between  painting  and  sculpture, 
but,  though  his  sense  of  form  always  continued  strong,  coloiu* 
soon  proved  more  potent  than  clay.  Already  possessing  a 
thoughtful,  reasoning  mind  he  was  full  of  theories  as  to  the 
proper  f  imction  of  portraiture  and  was  not  backward  about  put- 
ting his  theories  to  the  test.  His  lifelong  practice  came  to  him 
early.  It  was  when  painting  the  youthful  countenance  of  his 
brother,  that,  in  his  own  words,  he  **  suddenly  realized  that  an 
artist  should  concentrate  his  mind  on  the  work  in  hand,  as 
though  nothing  existed  in  the  world  except  the  one  being  before 
him,  who  is  unique  in  the  universe  and  will  never  come  again.'' 
All  his  subsequent  efforts  were  guided  by  this  principle  of  in- 
tense, exclusive  concentration  to  which  he  sacrificed  every  other 
element.  He  ended,  as  he  began,  a  man  of  one  idea,  of  one  am- 
bition. Munich  inevitably  proved  the  magnet  which  drew  him 
onward,  and  in  later  years  he  recalled  with  enthusiasm  those 
fresh,  dewy  mornings  when  he  used  to  start  out  barefoot  to 
spend  a  few  hours  among  the  imperishable  treasures  of  the  Alte 
Pinakothek.    At  this  period  his  sympathies  were  divided  be- 

[121] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

tween  the  sovereign  spirits  of  the  past,  chiefly  Rembrandt, 
Titian,  and  Rubens,  and  the  beauty  of  Upper  Bavarian  sky  and 
meadow.  He  began  something  of  a  colourist,  but  gradually  the 
brown  of  the  galleries  came  to  darken  the  brightness  of  his 
palette.  From  being  a  free  child  of  nature — ein  Natur  Kind — 
he  became  a  follower  of  precedent,  an  embodiment  of  those 
times  before  light  was  permitted  to  flood  art  with  its  throbbing 
lambence.  Just  as  a  profound  mental  concentration  proved  the 
dominant  motive  of  each  portrait,  so  it  grew  to  be  his  unalter- 
able conviction  that  "  the  true  breath  of  inspiration  is  drawn 
from  the  old  masters.  '^  As  years  went  on  he  entrenched  himself 
more  and  more  rigidly  in  this  belief.  With  the  intolerance  of  a 
man  of  limited  horizon  he  ruled  out  all  else.  He  even  regarded 
it  as  his  solemn  office  to  maintain  the  continuity  of  that  august 
tradition  which  seemed  in  danger  of  being  interrupted  by  cer- 
tain disquieting  modern  tendencies. 

After  studying  for  a  brief  period  with  Grafle,  a  pendant  of 
the  stilted  and  insipid  Winterhalter,  Lenbach  came  imder  the 
influence  of  Piloty,  the  most  progressive  figure  of  the  Bavarian 
capital.    To  the  Kunstverein  Exhibition  of  1857  he  sent  his 

*  Peasants  taking  Refuge  from  a  Storm  before  the  Chapel  of 
the  Virgin,'  which,  though  condemned  for  its  trivial  realism, 
was  nevertheless  purchased  for  four  hundred  and  fifty  gulden. 
With  this  sum,  together  with  a  State  scholarship  of  five  hundred 
gulden  more,  Lenbach  was  enabled  to  accompany  his  preceptor 
to  Rome.  He  did  not  at  once  succumb  to  the  spell  of  ancient 
art,  but  spent  several  happy  weeks  revelling  in  the  sunshine  of 
the  Campo  Vaccino.  The  fruits  of  this  Italian  sojourn  con- 
sisted in  a  number  of  sketches  of  local  types  and  scene  together 
with  his  *  Arch  of  Titus,'  which,  owing  to  a  lack  of  funds,  he 
was  obliged  to  complete  at  home  from  the  most  picturesque 
models  he  could  find  among  the  Bavarian  highlands.     The 

*  Arch  of  Titus  '  and  the  *  Shepherd  Boy  '  of  the  Schack  Gal- 

[122] 


FRANZ     VON     LENBACH 

lery  wMcli  immediately  followed  mark  the  culmination  of  Len- 
bach's  naturalistic  manner.  From  thenceforth  he  turned  his 
back  upon  outdoor  subjects  and  proceeded  hermetically  to  seal 
himself  in  the  galleries  where  no  ray  of  light,  no  breath  of  life, 
could  penetrate.  Although  his  feeling  for  colour  was  always 
defective,  and  though  even  the  critics  of  that  indecisive  period 
maliciously  hinted  that  his  *  Arch  of  Titus  '  must  have  been 
painted  with  mud  and  shaded  with  ink,  Lenbach  might  have 
made  his  name  as  a  pioneer  realist.  He  was  in  the  field  before 
almost  any  of  the  early  apostles  of  actuality,  and,  as  far  as  it 
goes,  the  barefoot  *  Shepherd  Boy,'  lying  on  his  back  in  the 
bleaching  sun  and  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  marks  a  dis- 
tinct point  in  the  conquest  of  frank,  wholesome  verity. 

Yet  things  were  not  to  continue  so.  The  new  was  to  come 
with  increasing  vigour  sweeping  all  before  it — all  save  this  last 
champion  of  the  old  whose  isolation  daily  grew  more  conspicu- 
ous. After  a  year  and  a  half  as  co-professor  at  the  new  Weimar 
Art  Academy  with  Bocklin  and  Begas,  Lenbach  returned  to 
Munich  where  the  Count  von  Schack  was  so  impressed  with  his 
rendering  of  Rubens 's  *  Helena  Fourment '  in  the  Alte  Pina- 
kothek,  that  he  sent  him  to  Italy  and  later  to  Spain  in  order  to 
copy  various  Renaissance  pictures  for  the  Schack  Gallery.  He 
thus  became  by  degrees  a  pupil  of  the  old  masters,  absorbing 
their  technique  and  assimilating  their  secrets  as  few  artists  have 
ever  done  or  have  ever  been  willing  to  do.  His  copies  after 
Titian,  Giorgione,  Rubens,  Velazquez,  and  others  have  never 
been  excelled.  He  seemed  to  be  a  reincarnation  of  the  past.  It 
is  almost  necessary  to  invoke  the  theory  of  metempsychosis  in 
order  satisfactorily  to  explain  his  career.  In  Rome  he  again 
met  the  modem  Titan,  Bocklin,  and  for  a  time  shared  his  studio, 
the  two  continuing  those  endless  speculations  and  disputations 
on  art  matters  which  had  begun  at  Weimar  and  which  were  re- 
vived later  at  Basle,  when  Lenbach,  pausing  en  route  from 

[123] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

Spain,  visited  the  lonely  symbolist  in  his  modest  home.  They 
used  to  talk  far  into  the  night,  these  two  powerful  creatures, 
emptying  full  bumpers  thewhile,  and,  though  their  views  were 
radically  opposed,  they  remained  close  friends,  Lenbach  in  par- 
ticular admiring  his  Swiss  colleague's  original  mind  and  incisive 
speech.  There  were,  besides,  numerous  points  of  contact  be- 
tween the  two,  notably  a  community  of  origin,  Lenbach 's  rugged 
father  having  been  a  mountain  man  from  the  Tyrolese  border. 
They  were  both,  in  fact,  Alpine  Germans. 

It  was  not  until  he  had  regained  the  Bavarian  capital  and 
resumed  his  acquaintance  with  Paul  Heyse,  and  through  him 
had  met  the  Wagner  circle,  on  the  occasion  of  the  first  perform- 
ance of  '  Die  Meistersinger,'  that  Lenbach  devoted  his  energies 
exclusively  to  portraiture.  From  the  completion  of  those  early 
likenesses  of  Heyse  and  Wagner  until  the  hour  of  his  death  he 
did  little  save  place  upon  canvas  with  portentous  fidelity  the 
features  of  the  distinguished  personages  he  had  the  shrewdness 
to  meet.  Though  he  drifted  in  turn  to  Vienna,  Berlin,  Cairo, 
Rome,  and  elsewhere,  Munich  continued  his  headquarters,  and 
it  was  in  Munich  that  his  friend  Gabriel  von  Seidl  later  built 
him  an  elaborate  Germano-Italian  villa  fronted  by  its  pretty 
garden  and  fountain  and  filled  with  the  varied  richness  of  the 
Renaissance.  At  the  salon  of  Frau  von  Wertheimstein  in 
Vienna,  which  was  the  centre  of  the  diplomatic  and  artistic  life 
of  the  Austrian  capital,  Lenbach  quickly  made  his  presence  felt, 
just  as  he  afterward  did  in  Berlin  at  the  house  of  the  Countess 
von  Schleinitz,  the  queen  patronne  of  the  early  Wagnerians. 
An  almost  rustic  brusqueness  of  manner,  a  biting  yet  servile 
tongue,  and  a  superb  capacity  for  forging  ahead  all  helped  the 
aggressive  Altbeyer  to  secure  the  most  flattering  commissions. 
He  aimed  high,  this  low-bom  son.  He  painted  only  those  who 
would  add  lustre  to  his  increasing  list  of  sitters.  In  barely  a 
year  he  was  able  to  send  fifteen  portraits  to  the  World's  Ex- 

[124] 


PRINCE    BISMARCK 

By  Franz  von  Lenbach 

[Courtesy  of  Hugo  Reisinger,  Esq.^ 


u^oa  to  tB 
eiii] 


•.n  Two.  TK;' 


-  home.     T]i«i\ 
merful  crea* 

Ucwiiiie,  and.  .  tlieu'  views  weie 

•  '  ri'ieiiGls.  T  ■    V  .  ■ '   *•- 

its  of  conta<^^  i~" - 
Lenbar^h'sr!: 
>?  Tyrolese  be 


It  -svas  not 
foei  the  'W 


arian  capital  and 

!  through  him 

itperform- 


:.  tires  of  th« 

fu  meet.    Thv 

(6,  and  elr 

n  Miu 

elaboi 


na,  Berlin,  Cairo, 

his  headquarters,  and 

later  bmlt 

■  5  by  its  pretty 
ichness  of  the 
voii    wertb- 


tost  nastie 
ti<!J,  and  a  superb  fB^ 


i»  this  loW"bo: 


would 


,  n  biting  yet  servile 
.'  all  helped  the 

ittering  coimnis- 

hiIt  those  who 
..    In  ' 
ziKi  Wona . 


H0flAM8ia    3D/ 


Copyright,  lOOS,  by  Huyo  Beisinger 


FRANZ     VON     LENBACH 

position,  including  those  of  Count  and  Countess  Andrassy, 
Coimt  Wilczek,  and  Princess  Obrenovitch.  Yet  he  was  to  go 
still  further,  for  within  a  few  months  Franz  Josef  called  him  to 
Budapest  and  Kaiser  Wilhelm  I  summoned  him  to  Berlin,  both 
portraits  being  also  shown  at  Vienna  in  1873.  Although  he  had 
reached  the  summit  of  his  ambition  regarding  the  choice  of 
models,  Lenbach  did  not  find  unqualified  favour  with  either 
press  or  public.  The  exalted  station  of  his  two  imperial  patrons 
clearly  paralyzed  his  faculties,  the  finished  pictures  being  mani- 
festly weak  and  lacking  in  observation.  He  had  not  attained 
that  assurance  in  the  presence  of  royalty  which  afterward  en- 
abled him  to  lay  bare  the  sorrow  of  the  Old  Kaiser's  heart  or 
to  depict  the  noble  simplicity  of  Kaiser  Friedrich  in  white 
Kiirassier  uniform.  Taste  was  also  not  sufficiently  advanced  to 
appreciate  the  dignified  harmony  of  Lenbach 's  work.  It  was 
some  time  before  south  Germany  could  forget  the  painstaking 
inanities  of  Stieler  and  the  Gallic  imitators. 

The  two  factors  which  proved  Franz  von  Lenbach 's  salvation 
and  won  for  him  the  foremost  place  in  Teutonic  portraiture 
were  his  decisive  sense  of  character  and  his  ability  to  transcribe 
in  enduring  terms  the  dominant  figures  about  him,  and  such  he 
did  not  find  either  in  the  pacific  Franz  Josef  or  in  the  reminis- 
cent and  rapidly  declining  Kaiser  Wilhelm  I.  The  Bavarian's 
name  will  always  be  linked  with  those  of  Bismarck  and  Moltke, 
of  whom  he  has  left  so  many  searching  and  affirmative  present- 
ments. Whatever  we  may  hear  or  read  of  these  dual  protago- 
nists we  must  see  them  through  the  steel-blue  eyes  of  Lenbach. 
As  the  field-marshal's  inexorably  effective  task  was  accom- 
plished first  it  is  fitting  that  he  should  have  been  painted  before 
the  massive,  feudal  chancellor.  If  one  typified  scientific  de- 
struction, the  other  embodied  fundamental  despotism,  and  the 
former  of  these  qualities  looks  from  every  canvas,  every  sketch 
of  Moltke;  the  latter  from  each  study,  each  drawing  of  Bis- 

[125] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

marck.  It  was  Lenbach's  habit  to  reduce  his  sitter  to  a  mental 
conception,  a  specific  word,  even,  and  all  the  while  he  was  paint- 
ing to  keep  repeating  this  word  over  and  over  to  himself.  By 
this  process  he  arrived  at  that  unity  of  appeal  which  constitutes 
at  once  the  strong  and  the  weak  feature  of  his  work.  It  was  a 
perfunctory  and  doctrinal  programme  which  had  come  from 
Schopenhauer,  and  before  him  from  Plato,  and  its  application 
to  artistic  problems  remains  debatable.  Having  made  Moltke's 
acquaintance  in  1873  Lenbach  proceeded  to  paint  his  idea  of  him 
as  the  commander  incarnate,  the  impassive,  self-contained 
genius  of  war  whose  results  are  all  preordained,  whose  victories 
are  aU  assured  in  advance.  He  visited  the  field-marshal  several 
times  at  Kreisau  and  elsewhere,  producing  at  least  three  unfor- 
gettable portraits.  Each  of  these  versions  of  the  silent,  passion- 
less captain  though  showing  the  progressive  stamp  of  age,  con- 
veys an  identical  impression.  Von  Moltke  himself  was  not 
insensible  to  the  painter's  rigid  method  he  having  once  impa- 
tiently exclaimed:  **  Why  does  he  always  seek  to  make  a  hero 
ofmer' 

Though  it  was  through  the  Minghetti  at  Kissingen  that  Len- 
bach first  met  Bismarck  he  did  not  succeed  in  painting  him 
until  four  years  later,  when  they  had  renewed  their  acquaintance 
at  Gastein.  From  1878  until  the  chancellor's  death  twenty  years 
after,  the  two  were  much  together,  Lenbach  staying  with  the 
prince  for  long  intervals  at  Varzin  or  Friedrichsruh  and  Bis- 
marck once  responding  in  kind  by  stopping  over  in  Munich  on 
his  way  from  Vienna.  Upwards  of  a  hundred  portraits  and 
studies  are  the  result  of  this  intimacy,  for,  despite  the  difference 
in  rank,  such  it  may  be  termed.  Bismarck  being,  imlike  Moltke, 
notoriously  adverse  to  formal  sittings,  Lenbach  was  accorded 
the  privilege  of  sketching  the  seignorial  chancellor  at  any  time 
or  place,  even  being  a  silent  onlooker  at  confidential  meetings 
of  state  importance.    Nearly  every  Christmas  was  passed  with 

[126] 


FRANZ     VON     LENBACH 

the  Bismarck  family,  and  on  the  prince's  birthday  in  April  it 
was  the  painter  who  was  chosen  to  propose  his  health.  It  is  thus 
natural  that  Lenbach's  portraits  of  Bismarck,  whether  at  the 
apex  of  his  power,  or  as  the  deposed  and  disillusionized  recluse 
of  Friedrichsruh,  should  possess  an  humanity  lacking  in  much 
of  the  artist's  other  work.  During  this  long  association  the 
painter  perhaps  unconsciously  put  aside  theory  and  remembered 
only  the  man  who  loomed  before  him — gigantic,  primitive,  beset 
by  dreams  of  absolutism  or  mellowed  by  humour  and  paternal 
affection.  It  is  a  significant  fact  that  Bismarck  was  pleased 
with  these  portraits,  for  he  one  day  said  with  a  sigh  of  relief, 
thinking,  doubtless,  of  previous  attempts  to  depict  his  adaman- 
tine countenance,  "  I  am  glad  to  see  myself  immortalized  by 
Lenbach's  brush;  it  is  thus  that  I  should  wish  to  descend  to 
posterity."  While  he  was  notably  successful  with  Bismarck,  it 
cannot  be  maintained  that  the  painter  was  so  fortunate  in  his 
delineation  of  Leo  XIII,  the  prince's  subtle  adversary  and  van- 
quisher in  the  Kulturkampf  which  was  then  rending  asunder 
Germany  and  the  Vatican.  It  was  in  1884,  while  Lenbach  was 
living  at  the  Palazzo  Borghese,  that  he  had  his  first  audience 
with  His  Holiness,  and  the  following  year  completed  the  picture 
which  now  hangs  in  the  Neue  Pinakothek.  It  is  a  pope-diplo- 
mat that  he  has  given  us,  a  master  of  statecraft  rather  than  the 
spiritual  father  of  the  world,  gentle  and  beneficent  as  well  as 
resourceful  in  the  ways  of  men.  Lenbach  was  obviously  more 
influenced  by  the  passing  issues  of  the  day  than  by  the  per- 
manent features  of  the  individual  he  was  painting.  Theory  had 
again  led  him  astray. 

Only  a  shade  less  convincing  than  his  mighty  and  merciless 
builders  of  the  Prussian  hegemony  is  Lenbach's  succession  of 
Geistesheroen,  or  heroes  of  the  mind  and  spirit,  such  as  Bollin- 
ger, Mommsen,  Helmholtz,  Hammacher,  Virchow,  the  volcanic 
Norse  radical,  Bjomstjerne  Bjornson,  and  the  eloquent  Slav, 

[127] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

Strossmayer.  They  all  gaze  out  of  the  same  enshrouding 
penumbra;  they  seem,  each  and  all,  perpetual  prisoners  of 
thought.  They  are  triumphs  of  pure  reason.  The  method  is 
realistic,  but  it  is  a  philosophical,  Kantian,  realism.  Amid  end- 
less abstractions  floats  a  mere  atom  of  the  concrete.  While  they 
are  mental  masks,  not  portraits  in  the  general  signification  of 
the  term,  for  phrenological  grasp  and  certainty  of  characteriza- 
tion they  have  seldom  been  approached.  Though  Lenbach  will 
scarcely  rank  beside  the  masters  he  so  revered,  it  must  have  been 
something  after  this  fashion  that  Holbein  limned  Erasmus  of 
Rotterdam,  that  Velazquez  painted  Pope  Innocent  X,  and  the 
youthful  Raphael,  Pope  Julius  II.  While  there  is,  it  cannot 
be  denied,  a  touch  of  finality  about  many  of  these  likenesses 
which  only  the  greatest  painters  have  been  able  to  attain,  yet 
this  quality  has  not  been  won  without  the  gravest  sacrifices. 
That  which  beyond  everything  gives  these  portraits  their  com- 
pelling tensity  of  expression  was  Lenbach 's  arbitrary  employ- 
ment of  focus.  Just  as  the  ancient  Egyptians  before  him  had 
done,  he  deliberately  made  the  eye  the  chief  point  of  emphasis. 
All  save  the  eye  and  its  immediate  setting  belong  to  a  vast 
and  formless  area  of  indefinite  treatment.  It  was  only  the  real- 
ity and  truth  with  which  he  depicted  the  few  features  he  chose 
to  reveal  that  make  Lenbach 's  art  in  any  degree  acceptable. 
The  man's  methods  were  characteristic.  His  models  were  posed 
in  semi-obscurity,  and  from  behind  a  pair  of  enormous  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles  he  flashed  upon  the  sitter  a  piercing  and 
reflective  gaze.  When  absorbed  he  never  stopped  for  fatigue 
nor  failed  to  take  infinite  pains.  He  employed  with  extraor- 
dinary facility  every  technical  resource,  every  trick  of  his 
craft.  None  of  his  triumphs  was  accidental.  Nothing  was  left 
to  chance.  Not  satisfied  with  himian  vision,  he  usually  con- 
sulted the  more  accurate  record  of  the  camera.  In  order  to 
arrive  at  what  he  held  to  be  a  superior  fidelity  to  physiognomy 

[128] 


Copyright,  1S99,  hy  Photograiihische  Gesellschaft 


THEODOR    MOMMSEN 

By  Franz  von  Lenbach 

l^Possession  of  the  Mommsen  famili/] 


FRANZ     VON     LENBACH 

he  would  take  as  many  as  sixty  photographs  of  a  single  head  in 
various  positions,  finally  selecting  the  one  which  best  suited 
his  purposes  and  this  he  would  enlarge  and  make  the  actual 
basis  of  his  portrait.  He  was  independent  and  cared  little  for 
public  opinion.  When  reproached  with  his  lack  of  external  de- 
tail he  would  say  brusquely  "  I  leave  it  to  the  beholder  to  fill  in 
what  he  wishes  to  see."  Of  Menzel  alone  he  stood  in  awe.  Re- 
ferring to  the  lack  of  cordial  relations  between  the  two  he  once 
remarked,  ^*  I  quarrelled  years  ago  with  Menzel;  he  criticizes 
like  a  shoemaker." 

If  it  be  true  that  Lenbach  expressed  most  of  his  men  in  in- 
tellectual formulae,  it  is  equally  apparent  that  he  made  the  ma- 
jority of  his  women  fit  a  preconceived  type  of  femininity.  The 
former  are  severe  and  introspective,  the  latter  are  usually  sensu- 
ous or  frivolous.  While  there  are  welcome  exceptions,  such  as 
the  dignified  oval  portrait  of  Freifrau  von  Fabrice,  a  clumsy 
coquetry  and  a  persistent  effort  to  simulate  the  charm  of  the 
English  school  of  the  eighteenth  century  or  the  morbid  delicacy 
of  Kaulbach  distinguish  the  Bavarian's  attitude  toward  the 
gentler  sex.  There  is  more  attempt  at  elaboration  in  the  female 
portraits.  They  possess  greater  exterior  seduction.  Almost 
achromatic  in  his  men,  Lenbach  used  a  wider  range  of  tone  in 
his  treatment  of  women.  Yet  he  never  handled  colour  with 
anything  approaching  freedom  or  vivacity.  He  was  always  less 
a  colourist  than  a  discolourist.  After  several  years  of  stormy 
bachelorhood  he  had  married  one  of  these  same  flowers  of  the 
German  noblesse,  doubtless  fancying  he  understood  her,  a  dream 
which  was  dispelled  shortly  after  the  birth  of  their  daughter 
Marion.  His  wife  was  the  young  Coimtess  von  Moltke,  a  grand- 
niece  of  the  field-marshal,  and  this  patrician  creature  found  it 
impossible  to  adjust  herself  to  the  painter's  primitive  ways,  nor 
could  he  comprehend  her  innate  aristocracy  of  feeling.  They 
separated  eventually,  she  marrying  Bismarck's  physician,  Dr. 

[129] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

Schweninger,  and  he,  sometimes  later,  resigning  himself  to  the 
more  comprehensive  temperament  of  Baroness  Lolo  von  Horn- 
stein.  Toward  the  last,  having  painted  most  of  the  grand  folk 
of  his  own  and  other  countries,  he  used  to  take  the  keenest  de- 
light in  depicting  the  artless  grace  of  his  children,  whom  he 
arrayed  in  all  manner  of  fancy  costumes,  now  painting  them  as 
little  princesses,  now  as  wandering  beggar  musicians.  He  was 
especially  fond  of  silver-blonde,  blue-eyed  Margot,  whom  he  used 
to  place  in  the  arms  of  Duse,  or  other  women,  or  hold  close  to 
his  own  unkempt  head.  Yet  even  here  the  old  desire  to  read 
into  nature  something  which  was  not  there,  or  was  there  but 
vaguely,  made  itself  manifest.  Marion  always  seems  to  be  gaz- 
ing into  the  future  with  a  shade  too  much  divination,  as  though 
overconscious  of  that  which  is  still  far  distant. 

There  is  scant  reason  for  passing  in  review  more  of  these 
portraits  which  reflect  less  of  life  itself  than  a  single  individual's 
powerful  though  prescribed  rendering  of  life.  They  touch  all 
classes  and  embrace  all  callings.  The  majority  were  painted 
at  the  Villa  Lenbach,  in  Luisenstrasse,  not  far  from  the  soaring 
Propylaea.  It  is  in  reality  a  double  structure,  one  part  contain- 
ing the  living  quarters,  the  other  being  dedicated  to  a  sumptu- 
ous, three-room  studio  occupying  the  entire  second  storey  and 
approached  from  the  outside  by  a  broad  flight  of  steps.  Himg 
with  tapestries  and  rich  brocades,  filled  with  busts,  bas-reliefs, 
antique  marbles,  and  rare  paintings  the  whole  place  breathes 
that  Renaissance  atmosphere  which  the  painter  so  loved  and 
with  which  he  strove  during  so  many  years  to  identify  himself. 
Though  harmony  was  the  passion  of  this  man's  life  he  lived  and 
died  an  anomaly,  a  contradiction.  He  came  from  below  and 
rose  far  beyond  his  station.  His  art,  while  modern  in  its  an- 
alysis, went  back  whole  centuries  to  find  a  congenial  setting. 
Possessing  a  keen,  intensive  vision  he  persisted  in  looking  upon 
the  world  through  the  eyes  of  other  men.    Despite  their  unques- 

[130] 


FRANZ     VON     LENBACH 

tioned  observation  and  vigorous  plastic  energy,  Franz  von  Len- 
bach's  portraits  constitute  an  entire  retrospective  exMbition. 
Behind  each  canvas  lurks  the  daemon  of  a  former  and  a  greater 
artist.  Here  is  the  subdued  splendour  of  Titian,  there  is  the 
mellow  gold  of  the  sturdy  Dutchman  who  died  in  obscurity,  and 
here  again  is  the  aristocratic  and  melancholy  charm  of  the  court- 
painter  who  passed  away  that  bleak  December  day  at  Black- 
friars.  It  is  imposing,  this  epoch  in  paint,  yet  it  is  often  more 
composite  than  individual.  It  is  sometimes,  even,  merely  an 
affair  of  recollections  and  citations.  Despite  its  manifestly 
reactionary  tendencies  the  work  of  Lenbach  has  not  been  with- 
out its  able  apostles  and  imitators,  at  the  head  of  whom  stands 
Leo  Samberger,  whose  canvases  reveal  the  same  sombre  tonal- 
ity, and,  at  moments,  an  even  greater  dramatic  force  than  those 
of  his  predecessor.  Such  reversions  to  fonner  modes  need 
not,  however,  be  altogether  deplored.  There  will  always  be, 
in  painting,  these  revivals,  these  resurrections,  for  the  progress 
of  art,  like  that  of  other  forms  of  evolution,  is  marked  by  a 
series  of  curves,  not  by  a  single  straight  line.  At  intervals, 
indeed,  as  in  the  case  of  Lenbach,  these  curves  become  almost 
a  circle — a  circle  within  whose  dim  and  tenebrous  arcanmn  the 
painter's  fancy  continuously  revolves. 

No  artist  save  perhaps  the  regal  Fleming  was  more  hon- 
oured during  his  lifetime.  They  made  him  a  knight  and  an 
Ehrendoktor  of  the  University  of  Halle.  He  was  frequently 
chosen  president  of  the  International  Exhibition  of  Munich 
and  usually  had  several  rooms  to  himself  in  the  Glaspalast, 
ornately  furnished  and  hung  with  scores  of  dark,  anachronistic 
canvases,  each  of  which  resembled  an  awakened  echo  of  bygone 
days,  an  escaped  refugee  of  the  galleries.  Although  he  never 
wholly  recovered  from  that  partial  paralysis  which  for  so  many 
months  held  him  a  rigid,  unwilling  prisoner,  Lenbach  was  able 
to  resume  work  before  the  end,  which  came  on  6  May  1904. 

[131] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

His  last  picture  was  a  portrait  of  himself  which  was  shown 
at  the  memorial  exhibition  of  his  life  work  in  the  new  and 
imposing  building  in  the  Konigsplatz,  the  conception  and 
erection  of  which  were  largely  due  to  his  efforts.  For  Bavaria, 
and  for  Germany,  he  remained  one  of  the  great  ones  of  the  earth. 
And  when  the  crowd  gathered  silently  before  his  villa  on  that 
bright  spring  morning,  each  watcher  seemed  to  be  saying  to 
himself  that  the  world  had  lost  a  master  spirit — each,  save  a 
slender  few  who  chanced  to  remember  that  the  mind  of  man  is 
too  baffling  and  too  complex  to  be  reduced  to  a  definition,  and 
that  the  soul  of  man  demands  light,  the  pulsing  light  of  day,  for 
its  solace  and  its  inspiration. 


[132] 


^  * 


ILYA  EFIMOVITCH  REPIN 


/SO  u. 


s^e^mt 


ILYA    EFIMOVITCH    REPIN 
From  a  recent  photograph 
[Courtesy  of  the  artist^ 


ILYA  EFIMOVITCH  REPIN" 


ON  a  certain  occasion  when  Flaubert  and  Zola  were  dis- 
cussing Merimee's  style,  and  Flaubert  was  endeavour- 
ing to  explain  why  it  was  bad,  Turgenev,  who  happened 
to  be  present,  found  it  difficult  to  catch  the  drift  of  the  matter. 
It  was  by  no  means  because  the  author  of  *  Spring  Floods,* 
*  Smoke,*  and  *  Virgin  Soil '  was  an  inferior  French  scholar, 
but  because  the  Slav,  as  a  rule,  has  small  taste  for  analytical 
subtleties.  In  art  as  in  life  a  poignant  sense  of  reality  is  with 
each  Russian  an  inevitable  birthright.  Those  restless  wander- 
ers who  started  from  Galicia  and  the  upper  Dnyepr,  who 
founded  Novgorod  the  Great  and  Moscow,  and  settled  the  fertile 
basin  of  the  Volga,  were  not  theorists.  The  merchant  traders 
who  in  turn  pushed  across  the  Urals  and  penetrated  the  silent 
forests  and  frozen  marshes  of  Siberia  were  not  impelled  by  ab- 
stract ideas,  by  the  Christian  fervour  of  Crusaders,  for  example, 
but  by  simple  motives  of  race  instinct.  From  the  outset  the 
Eussian  has  been  brought  face  to  face  with  the  severest  actual 
conditions.  He  has  always  been  a  subject  and  a  sufferer.  Now 
overrun  by  the  Golden  Hordes  of  the  Great  Khans,  and  now 
stifled  by  the  iconography  of  Byzantine  priest,  the  Slavic  spirit 
had  little  scope  for  individual  development.  When  the  Mongol 
yoke  was  at  length  broken  by  the  Grand  Princes  of  Moscow  the 
situation  remained  much  the  same.  Oppression  still  existed; 
only  it  came  from  within,  not  from  without.  The  people  no 
longer  paid  tribute  to  a  khan,  they  bowed  to  his  successor,  the 

[135] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

Tsar,  a  being  almost  as  Asiatic  and  as  autocratic.  It  was  not 
until  the  observant  and  tenacious  Peter  brought  back  with  him 
an  incongruous  assortment  of  European  ideas  and  customs  that 
material  changes  were  effected,  though  even  then  much  which 
was  old  continued  imtouched.  While  German  dress  and  Ger- 
man bureaucracy  were  in  a  measure  adopted,  and  Peterhof  be- 
came a  miniature  Versailles,  echoes  of  the  East  and  of  that 
blighting  yellow  invasion  still  persisted.  French  was  prattled 
in  the  salons  and  beneath  the  trees  of  Tsarskoye-Selo,  yet  the 
populace  was  crushed  imderf  oot  with  a  cynicism  wholly  despotic 
and  oriental.  Down  to  the  present  time,  in  fact,  matters  showed 
but  scant  alteration.  Though  there  were  Liberator  Tsars  as 
well  as  sinister  tyrants  on  the  throne,  progress  remained  dubi- 
ous and  intermittent.  Within  our  own  generation  the  beneficent 
clemency  of  Alexander  II  has  been  followed  by  the  drastic  re- 
actionary measures  of  von  Plehve  and  Pobiedonostsev.  Each 
step  forward  seems  to  have  been  offset  by  a  corresponding  step 
backward.  The  Tatar  spearman  merely  gave  way  to  the  Cos- 
sack with  his  whip. 

In  the  slow  and  tortuous  evolution  of  aesthetic  expression  in 
Russia  the  novel  preceded  both  music  and  the  graphic  arts.  For 
long  periods  the  painter  was  crushed  beneath  archaic  formalism 
and  frigid  academic  precedent.  Just  as  in  the  broader  relations 
of  life,  all  spontaneous,  healthy  impulse  was  repressed  by  influ- 
ences wholly  artificial  and  foreign.  Hardly  had  the  bloodless 
Byzantine  tradition  spent  its  tenuous  force  when  Italian  and 
French  ideals  asserted  their  imported  pre-eminence.  Instead 
of  aiming  to  be  themselves,  artists  struggled  clumsily  to  become 
known  as  the  Russian  Raphael,  Poussin,  David,  or  Guido  Reni. 
A  few,  among  whom  were  Levitzky,  Borovikovsky,  and  Kipren- 
sky,  achieved  a  more  specific  and  individual  success.  Though 
the  St.  Petersburg  Academy  was  founded  as  far  back  as  1757, 
it  was  not  imtil  long  after  the  shattered  legions  of  Napoleon 

[136] 


ILYA    EFIMOVITCH    REPIN 

straggled  homeward  through  the  snow  and  the  first  throb  of  real- 
ism had  begun  to  stir  the  modern  spirit  that  Slavonic  painting 
showed  signs  of  independent  vitality.  Even  then  the  truth  was 
not  fully  accepted,  for  the  efforts  of  Orlovsky  and  Venezianov 
were  soon  discounted  by  the  operatic  romanticism  of  Brulov's 

*  Fall  of  Pompeii  '  and  the  clamour  which  attended  its  exhibi- 
tion not  only  in  Russia  but  throughout  Europe.  That  whole- 
some instinct  for  veracity  so  typical  of  later  art  forms  found 
no  foothold  in  the  pretentious  and  melodramatic  wake  of  Brulov. 
Bruni  and  Neff  were  mere  echoes  of  an  icy  classicism,  and 
whereas  Ivanov  possessed  both  truth  and  emotion,  his  utterance 
was  too  obscure  and  pedantic  to  enlist  general  sympathy  or 
comprehension. 

The  modest,  unwitting  father  of  contemporary  Russian 
painting  as  well  as  literature  was  Gogol,  a  furtive  little  man 
with  the  face  of  a  fox  and  a  great  mass  of  dark  hair  flapping 
across  his  anxious  brow.  It  is  from  under  the  mantle  of  the 
author  of  *  Taras  Bulba,'  *  Evenings  on  the  Farm  near  Di- 
kanka,'  *  The  Revizor,'  and  *  Dead  Souls,'  that  have  sprung 
successively  such  writers  as  Goncharov,  Turgenev,  and  Tolstoy, 
and  such  artists  as  Repin,  Pasternak,  and  Serov.  He  died  at 
forty,  a  pitiful  religious  mystic,  without  realizing  that  his 
sprightly  humour,  the  keenness  of  his  observation,  and  his 
scrupulous  fidelity  to  local  type  had  proved  an  incalculable 
stimulus  to  the  entire  nation.  Once  Gogol  had  paved  the  way 
it  was  not  difficult  for  Sternberg  to  paint  that  same  vivacious 

*  Little  Russia  '  with  skill  and  animation,  nor  for  Fetodov  to 
amuse  a  generation  with  his  *  Newly  Decorated  Knight '  or 

*  The  Major's  Match.'  And  in  Gogol  also  lurked  unconsciously 
something  of  that  homely  and  pathetic  verity  with  which  Perov 
conceived  his  *  Funeral  iq  the  Coimtry  '  and  ^  The  Village  Ser- 
mon.' As  at  the  outset,  literature  continued  to  lead  the  way, 
for  it  was  not  until  the  greatest  of  Russia's  artists  whether  with 

[137] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

brush  or  pen — Ivan  Turgenev — ^had  written  his  *  Diary  of  a 
Sportsman  '  that  Slavonic  painters  appreciated  the  mournful, 
elegiac  beauty  of  those  gently  undulant  plains  stretching  away 
toward  faint  rim  of  forest  or  grey,  unbroken  horizon.  Shishkin, 
Lebedev,  and  Savrassov  were  among  the  earliest  to  reflect  that 
intimate,  outdoor  poetry  which  had  been  so  long  neglected  for  a 
conventionalized  Campagna,  the  Bay  of  Naples,  or  the  spectacu- 
lar remoteness  of  the  Alps.  Down  to  the  past  score  of  years, 
almost,  Russian  painting  gained  inspiration  from  the  more  per- 
sonal and  courageous  appeal  of  Russian  fiction.  Though  it  is 
unnecessary  to  enforce  any  precise  connection  between  the  two, 
it  is  interesting  to  note  that  *  War  and  Peace  '  antedated  the 
military  canvases  of  Verestchagin,  and  that  Dostoevsky's  tragic 
and  penetrating  studies  in  *  Crime  and  Pimishment '  were  fol- 
lowed by  the  searching  sketches  and  portraits  of  larochenko 
and  Kramskoy.  It  matters  little,  however,  which  form  of  ex- 
pression came  first  or  which  came  after.  The  chief  point  is 
that  each  strove  to  reveal  with  increasing  sincerity  that  great, 
confused,  and  always  suffering  humanity  which  lay  just  at  hand 
waiting  to  be  understood  and  uplifted. 

Only  vaguely  it  is  known  outside  of  Russia  that  there  is  liv- 
ing and  painting  to-day  in  St.  Petersburg  one  of  the  foremost 
of  modem  masters.  Only  dimly  is  it  realized  that  in  Ilya  Repin 
the  shifting  pageant  of  Slavic  life  and  scene  finds  one  of  its 
ablest  interpreters.  Yet  for  personal  fervour,  national  feeling, 
or  plastic  vigour  this  forceful,  veracious  genius  deserves  to  rank 
close  beside  Turgenev,  Dostoevsky,  and  Tolstoy  in  prose,  and 
Chaykovsky  in  music.  The  story  of  Repin 's  career  and  achieve- 
ment is  the  story  of  Russia  during  the  past  threescore  years. 
On  his  canvases  glows  the  history  of  his  coimtry  with  all  its  pos- 
sibilities, all  its  eager,  baffled  effort  and  sullen,  misdirected 
power.  His  series  of  portraits  constitutes  a  Pantheon  of  Rus- 
sia's leading  minds;  his  naturalistic  and  medieval  compositions 

[138] 


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ILYA    EFIMOVITCH    REPIN 

reflect  with  impelling  conviction  a  troubled  present  or  a  sumptu- 
ous, barbaric  past.  The  art  of  Repin  is  above  everything  a  dis- 
tinctly racial  expression.  It  is  to  Russia,  and  Russia  alone,  that 
he  has  consecrated  the  clarity  of  his  vision  and  the  surety  of 
his  hand.  And  these  gifts  he  has  not  dedicated  to  the  narrow 
province  of  aesthetics,  but  to  a  broader,  more  inclusive  human- 
ity. At  first  his  message  seemed  merciless  in  its  imflinching 
truth,  yet  gradually  it  took  on  more  and  more  outward  radiance 
and  inward  beauty.  Gradually  the  stem  accuser  who  had  so 
long  continued  taciturn  and  sardonic  exhaled  sympathy  and 
fellowship.  Though  he  seems  to  stand  alone,  Repin  belongs  to 
that  great  succession  of  academic  realists  at  whose  head  re- 
mained for  so  long  the  diminutive  and  masterful  Adolf  von 
Menzel.  Once  the  facts  of  life  are  at  his  command,  Repin 
groups  them  with  resistless  scenic  appeal.  He  composes  as  well 
as  observes.  His  work  is  both  individual  and  typical ;  it  is  both 
portraiture  and  panorama.  Despite  his  years  this  phenomenal 
being  is  still  the  most  commanding  figure  in  Russian  art.  He 
has  touched  every  field  and  has  everywhere  revealed  his  incon- 
testable supremacy.  In  each  he  displays  the  same  sovereign 
assurance,  the  same  flood  of  colour,  the  same  impeccable  com- 
position. 

Early  in  November,  some  five-and-forty  years  ago,  there 
knocked  at  the  portals  of  the  Imperial  Academy  of  Arts  in  the 
city  by  the  Neva  a  young  Cossack  from  the  Government  of 
Kharkov.  He  was  pale  and  shy  of  manner,  with  masses  of 
brown  hair  clustering  about  brow  and  ears,  and  imder  his  arm 
carried  a  portfolio  of  sketches.  The  lad  had  come  all  the  way 
from  Chuguyev,  an  isolated  village  amid  the  steppes  of  Little 
Russia,  his  entire  capital  consisting  of  fifty  roubles  and  a  con- 
suming desire  to  become  a  painter.  Bom  24  July  1844,  of  a 
martial  father  and  a  gentle,  solicitous  mother,  Ilya  Repin  soon 
displayed  a  taste  for  graphic  expression.    When  a  mere  child 

[1391 


MODERlSr    ARTISTS 

he  used  to  draw  pictures  for  his  sister  and  her  playmates  as 
well  as  cut  figures  out  of  cardboard  and  model  animals  in  wax. 
Before  twelve  he  made  creditable  pencil  portraits  of  his  relatives 
and  scrupulously  copied  all  the  woodcuts  and  lithographs  he 
could  lay  his  hands  on.  Though  delicate,  he  was  sent  to  the 
communal  school  where  his  mother  was  a  teacher,  and  later  to 
the  near-by  Topographical  Institute,  but  on  the  closing  of  the 
latter  was  apprenticed,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  to  Bunakov,  a 
local  painter  of  sacred  images.  So  rapid  was  the  boy's  progress 
that  within  three  years  he  was  able  to  support  himself,  receiving 
anywhere  from  two  to  five,  and  even  twenty  roubles  for  a  re- 
ligious subject  or  the  likeness  of  some  wealthy  villager.  Pious 
muzhiks  and  pompous  rural  dignitaries  would  often  come  from 
a  himdred  versts  around  to  see  his  ikoni  or  to  secure  his  services 
as  ecclesiastical  decorator,  the  most  famous  of  his  efforts  being 
a  *  Saint  Simeon,'  which  was  by  no  means  devoid  of  dramatic 
fervour  or  fitting  ecstasy.  It  was  while  working  in  the  church 
of  Sirotin  that  Repin  first  heard  of  the  eager,  ambitious  life  of 
the  capital  with  its  possibilities  so  far  beyond  the  limitations  of 
provincial  endeavour.  Certain  of  his  comrades  told  him  not 
only  of  the  Academy,  but  of  Kramskoy,  the  leader  of  the  new 
spirit,  who  had  lately  paid  a  visit  to  Ostrogorsk,  bringing  with 
him  the  fashions  of  St.  Petersburg  and  the  ferment  of  fresh 
social  and  aesthetic  ideas.  When,  at  nineteen,  he  finally  stood 
facing  the  twin  sphinxes  that  solemnly  guard  the  temple  of  art 
on  the  Vassily  Ostrov,  Repin  realized  that  he  must  begin  anew, 
that  much  he  had  so  laboriously  learned  by  himself  must  be  for- 
gotten. Instead  of  entering  the  Academy  directly  he  spent  a 
year  in  preliminary  preparation,  subsisting  meanwhile  in  the 
most  precarious  fashion,  for  his  resources  were  pitifully  slen- 
der. In  due  course  he  met  his  idol,  Kramskoy,  whom  he  found 
to  be  a  dark,  meagre  man  with  deep-set,  burning  eyes,  and  who 
always  attended  his  classes  arrayed  in  a  long  black  redingote. 

[140] 


ILYA    EFIMOVITCH    REPIN 

Kramskoy  took  an  immediate  interest  in  the  young  provincial's 
work  and  often  asked  him  to  his  house  where  he  expounded  the 
gospel  of  reality  with  convincing  magnetism.  The  following 
autumn  Repin  entered  the  Academy,  naturally  finding  its  stilted 
routine  cold  and  listless  beside  the  rigorous,  wholesome  creed  of 
his  earlier  master. 

It  would  have  been  impossible  for  a  young  artist  to  have 
come  to  the  capital  at  a  more  inspiring  period.  The  era  of 
reform  which  followed  the  liberation  of  the  serfs  was  daily 
gathering  impetus.  Radiant  ideas  of  freedom  and  progress  per- 
meated all  classes  of  society.  On  every  side  were  signs  of  re- 
generation, of  a  vast  political  and  spiritual  awakening.  While 
the  influence  of  such  ardent  apostles  of  the  poor  and  the  homely 
as  Pisemsky,  Nekrasov,  and  Shchedrin  found  echo  in  the  paint- 
ings of  Perov  and  larochenko,  it  was  not,  however,  imtil  the 
very  month  Ilya  Repin  journeyed  northward  from  his  distant 
home  that  the  movement,  so  far  as  art  was  concerned,  took  spe- 
cific shape.  On  9  November  1863,  under  the  leadership  of 
Kramskoy,  thirteen  of  the  ablest  students  of  the  Academy  re- 
belled against  soulless  officialism,  left  the  institution,  and  formed 
themselves  into  an  independent  body.  The  little  band  struggled 
dubiously  along  for  a  while,  but  later  was  strong  enough  to 
establish  the  Peredvizhnaya  Vista vka,  or  Society  of  Travelling 
Exhibitions.  It  is  to  this  society,  with  its  hatred  of  classic  and 
mythological  themes  and  its  frank  love  of  refreshing  outdoor 
scene,  that  Russian  painting  owes  its  present  vitality.  It  was 
this  clear-eyed,  open-minded  group  of  enthusiasts  who  first  made 
it  possible  for  the  Slavic  artist  to  go  among  the  people,  to  listen 
to  the  secret  song  of  the  steppe.  Although  he  passed  six  years 
at  the  Academy,  Repin  was  never  in  sympathy  with  its  ideals, 
nor  did  he  in  any  degree  absorb  its  traditions.  Beyond  every- 
thing he  strove  to  attain  an  explicit  truthfulness  of  rendering. 
The  grip  of  the  external  was  already  strong  upon  him,  the  magic 

[  141  ] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

of  visible  things  exercised  its  own  imperative  appeal.  So  con- 
spicuous was  the  young  radical's  talent  that  in  1869  he  was 
awarded  the  small  gold  medal,  and  the  following  term,  for  his 

*  Raising  of  Jairus's  Daughter,'  obtained  the  large  gold  medal 
and  the  travelling  scholarship.  The  summer  after  winning  his 
academic  laurels  he  went  on  a  sketching  trip  down  the  Volga — 
an  event  which,  more  than  axiyilamg,  opened  his  eyes  to  that 
serene  beauty  of  nature  and  sorrowful  lot  of  man  which  so  long 
proved  his  inspiration.  On  his  return,  boldly  and  without 
prelude,  Ilya  Repin,  at  six-and-twenty,  proceeded  to  paint  the 
first  masterpiece  of  the  modem  Russian  school. 

It  is  difficult  to  realize  the  vast  distance  which  separates  the 

*  Barge-towers  of  the  Volga  '  from  all  that  went  before.  These 
shaggy,  sun-scorched  creatures  who  wearily  drag  their  heavy 
grain  ship  along  endless  yellow  flats  signify  something  more 
than  a  mere  band  of  burlaky.  Gathered  from  every  corner  of 
the  empire,  of  different  ages,  feature,  and  stature,  they  are  one 
in  dinnb  resignation,  in  fruitless,  despairing  revolt,  and  in  cease- 
less, debasing  effort.  Each  pulls  on  the  same  sagging  line,  this 
one  stolidly,  that  one  savagely,  their  feet  deep  in  the  sand,  their 
eyes  downcast  or  lifted  toward  the  shimmering  canopy  of  a  blue, 
cloud-flecked  sky.  They  are  the  eternal  slaves  of  toil.  Their 
melancholy,  barbaric  song  and  the  steady  rhythm  of  their  strain- 
ing bodies  suggest  a  great  symphony  of  suffering,  a  whole  cycle 
of  human  endeavour  which  began  long  since  and  must  continue 
forever.  The  effect  of  the  canvas  is  that  of  fulfilling  mastery. 
The  composition  is  inevitable,  each  of  the  types  is  accurately 
individualized,  and  everjrwhere  radiates  the  glory  of  the  free 
outdoors,  not  the  bitumen  and  brown  sauce  of  the  galleries.  At 
one  stroke  Repin  placed  himself  at  the  head  of  his  colleagues ; 
with  a  single  picture  he  discounted  decades  of  rococo  and  ro- 
manticism. His  triumph  over  formula  was  complete,  and  his 
fame  as  sudden  and  widespread  as  that  of  the  young  officer  who, 

[142] 


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5 
a 


ILYA    EFIMOVITCH    REPIN 

years  before,  had  penned  with  uncompromising  verity  *  The 
Cossacks  *  and  '  Sevastopol  Sketches.' 

While  his  *  Burlaky  '  was  being  exhibited  in  St.  Petersburg 
and  Vienna,  Repin  had  already  begun  that  sojourn  abroad, 
which,  though  it  matured  his  artistic  powers,  only  served  to  in- 
tensify his  love  for  his  native  land.  The  Continental  museums, 
with  their  remote,  grandiose  appeal,  held  no  message  for  his 
observant,  nature-loving  temperament.  He  succumbed  neither 
to  the  mute  antiquity  of  Rome  nor  to  the  gracious  animation  of 
Paris.  While  he  enjoyed  the  endless  ferment  of  cafe  and  street 
life,  he  could  never  forget  those  shabby,  smoke-filled  student 
rooms  where  political  and  artistic  questions  were  discussed  with 
sacred  ardour,  nor  those  far-off  stretches  of  waving  plume  grass. 
The  only  work  of  consequence  to  come  from  his  brush  during 
this  period  was  a  touching  bit  of  symbolism  entitled  *  Sadko  in 
the  Wonder  Realm  of  the  Deep,'  in  which  the  painter-exile 
seems  to  have  suggested  his  own  loneliness  and  home-longing. 
There  proved,  indeed,  to  be  a  prophetic  note  in  the  picture, 
for  he  returned  to  Russia  before  his  allotted  time  had  expired, 
having,  like  Sadko,  responded  to  the  call  of  Chemavushka, 
the  beseeching  embodiment  of  the  Slavic  race  spirit.  Once 
back  amid  the  scenes  of  his  early  efforts  Repin  devoted  his 
untiring  energy  to  furthering  the  cause  of  national  artistic  ex- 
pression. He  immediately  cast  his  lot  with  the  Society  of  Trav- 
elling Exhibitions,  in  which  he  became  the  chief  figure.  At  first 
he  settled  in  Moscow,  but  later  removed  to  St,  Petersburg, 
where  he  accepted  a  professorship  in  the  reorganized  Academy, 
which,  under  the  vice-presidency  of  Count  Ivan  Tolstoy,  gath- 
ered back  to  the  fold  certain  of  the  former  recalcitrants.  For 
diversity  of  theme,  for  vigour  of  presentation,  and  searching 
fidelity  of  accent,  few  painters  have  excelled  the  succession  of 
canvases  which  Repin  therewith  began  to  offer  an  enthralled 
public.    Year  after  year  each  picture  was  in  turn  hailed  as  the 

[143] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

evangel  of  actuality  or  greeted  as  an  incomparable  evocation  of 
the  past.  At  times  an  almost  ascetic  severity  would  darken  his 
vision,  but  perhaps  the  next  work  would  glory  in  a  Byzantine 
richness  of  costume,  the  gleam  of  jewels,  and  the  glint  of  pol- 
ished metal.  Though  he  often  gazed  backward  across  the  surg- 
ing centuries,  never,  after  student  days,  did  he  choose  a  subject 
not  defiantly  Muscovite. 

It  is  absorbing  to  trace  from  canvas  to  canvas  the  unfolding 
of  Repin's  genius.  His  principal  works  are  not  the  result  of  a 
single,  consecutive  transcription  of  something  clearly  formu- 
lated in  the  mind ;  they  are  the  outcome  of  prolonged  effort  and 
adjustment.  As  many  as  a  himdred  preliminary  studies  were 
made  for  *  The  Cossacks,'  of  which,  during  some  ten  years,  he 
painted  three  finished  versions.  He  is  never  satisfied,  he  con- 
stantly strives  to  attain  a  verity  which  seldom  seems  final.  Al- 
though certain  of  his  pictures  are  owned  by  the  imperial  family 
and  the  nobility,  the  majority  are  in  the  Tretiakov  Gallery,  in 
Moscow.  In  this  low,  rambling  building  across  the  gleaming 
river  from  the  Kremlin  are  gathered  upwards  of  two  thousand 
representative  examples  of  Russian  art,  sixty  of  which,  includ- 
ing sketches  and  portraits,  being  by  Repin.  Such  works  as  *  The 
Tsarevna  Sophie  Confined  to  the  Novodevitchy  Monastyr  dur- 
ing the  Execution  of  the  Strelitz,'  *  The  Tsar  Ivan  the  Terrible 
and  his  son  Ivan  Ivanovitch,'  *  Nicholas  the  Miracle  Worker,' 
and  *  The  Cossacks'  Reply  to  the  Sultan  Mohammed  IV  '  reveal 
Repin  as  an  historical  painter  of  incontestable  mastery.  While 
*  The  Tsarevna  Sophie  '  is  scarcely  more  than  a  tense  and  har- 
rowing study  in  physiognomy,  *  Ivan  the  Terrible  and  his  Son  ' 
challenges  comparison  with  the  grim  Spaniards  at  their  best. 
In  one  of  the  sombre  chambers  of  the  Granovitaya  Palata,  Ivan, 
in  a  passion  of  demoniacal  ferocity,  struck  down  his  favourite 
child,  and,  an  instant  later,  realizing  what  he  had  done,  clasped 
the  bleeding,  shattered  boy  to  his  breast.    It  is  this  swift  transi- 

[144] 


ILYA    EFIMOVITCH    REPIN 

tion  from  murder  to  agonizing  remorse  that  Repin  has  depicted 
with  a  primitive  directness  equalled  only  by  Ribera.  So  over- 
powering is  the  tragic  horror  of  the  scene  that  when  the  canvas 
was  first  placed  on  view  women  fainted  and  men  turned  away 
aghast.  Yet  the  picture  is  more  than  a  gruesome  episode.  It 
conjures  up  as  nothing  has  ever  done  that  dark  inheritance, 
those  brooding  centuries  of  barbaric  splendour  and  relentless 
savagery  which  form  the  backgroimd  of  present-day  Russia.  In 
*  Nicholas  the  Miracle  Worker,'  who  is  that  holy  Nicholas  of 
Myra  who  prevented  the  execution  of  certain  Christians  during 
the  reign  of  Emperor  Licinius,  Repin  bathes  his  figures  in  a 
suffusion  of  light  which  heightens  the  solemnity  and  dramatic 
suspense  of  a  situation  that  so  narrowly  escapes  becoming  one 
of  mere  brutal  butchery.  *  The  Cossacks,'  which  is  notably 
popular  abroad,  perhaps  best  displays  Repin 's  effective  group- 
ing, his  robust,  almost  Flemish  opulence  of  colour,  and  his  char- 
acteristic gift  for  portraiture.  The  mocking  bravado  of  each 
countenance  tells  its  own  story.  You  can  literally  hear  the  de- 
risive laughter  of  these  liberty-loving  Zaporozhtsi  as  the  regi- 
mental scribe  pens  their  defiant  answer  while  they  gather  about 
the  rude,  card-strewn  table.  Like  Gogol  before  him,  Repin  has 
here  rolled  back  a  few  hundred  years.  We  are  again  in  the  days 
of  Taras  Bulba  and  his  pirates  of  the  steppe,  that  stormy  inland 
sea  over  which  used  to  roam  Kazak  and  Pole,  Tatar  and  Turk. 

Yet  all  the  while  he  was  steeped  in  the  past  Repin  never  lost 
identity  with  the  issues  of  his  own  day.  Side  by  side  with  the 
painter  of  history  worked  the  painter  of  contemporary  life. 
The  Russo-Turkish  war  furnished  him  with  several  themes,  and 
in  what  is  known  as  the  Nihilist  Cycle,  consisting  of  *  The 
Conspirators,'  *  The  Arrest,'  *  The  Unexpected  Return,'  etc.,  he 
portrayed  with  minute,  penetrating  intensity  that  smouldering 
social  volcano  which  has  been  responsible  for  so  many  genera- 
tions of  anguish  and  self-immolation.     Among  the  numerous 

[145] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

works  of  this  period  are  two  that  merit  special  attention — 
*  Vechernitsi/  or,  as  it  is  generally  called,  *  Russian  Village 
Dancers,'  and  the  *  Religious  Procession  in  the  Government  of 
Kursk,'  which  was  supplemented  by  a  somewhat  similar  *  Pro- 
cession.' Nowhere  has  Repin's  Little  Russian  origin  betrayed 
itself  so  humanly  as  in  these  simple,  naive  merrymakers  who 
meet  at  some  far-away  traktir  and  pass  the  night  before  their 
wedding  dancing  by  candle-light  to  the  time  of  violin,  pipe,  and 
balalaika.  There  is  a  humour,  an  almost  tender  playfulness  to 
the  episode  that  proves  Repin  is  not  always  the  austere  martyr 
painter.  In  the  *  Procession,'  with  its  struggling,  seething 
mass  of  humanity,  its  fat,  gold-robed  priests,  stupid  peasants, 
wretched  cripples,  cruel-mouthed  officials,  and  inflated  rural 
dignitaries,  Repin  seems  to  have  given  a  synthesis  of  Russia. 
Borne  aloft  are  the  sacred  images ;  banners  and  festoons  flutter 
on  the  dust-laden  air,  and  in  the  midst  of  all,  close  beside  crucifix 
and  pleading  Virgin,  whistles  to  right  and  left  the  knout.  While 
simply  depicting  a  scene  one  might  witness  any  day  on  the 
parched  highways  of  southern  Russia,  the  picture  possesses 
deeper  significance.  In  essence  it  is  a  condemnation,  and  one 
all  the  more  severe  because  clothed  in  the  inflexible  language  of 
fact. 

During  the  past  decade  Repin  has  painted  several  memor- 
able pictures,  and  this,  despite  his  duties  as  professor  at  the 
Academy,  despite  continuous  commissions  for  portraits,  and 
various  huge  coromemorative  panels.  *  The  Duel,'  which  was 
awarded  the  medal  of  honour  at  the  Venice  Exposition  of  1897, 
is  unquestionably  one  of  his  most  dramatic  and  subtly  poetic 
conceptions,  though  *  Follow  Me,  Satan! '  and  ^  What  Boundless 
Space! '  aroused  equal  enthusiasm.  The  latter  shows  a  young 
man  in  the  uniform  of  a  university  student  and  a  young  woman 
standing  hand  in  hand  amid  a  madly  plunging  torrent.  On  ac- 
count of  its  symbolism  the  public  has  experienced  a  certain  dif- 

[146] 


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ILYA    EFIMOVITCH    REPIN 

ficulty  in  divining  the  meaning  of  this  picture.  Is  it  a  warning, 
or  is  it  a  call  to  self-sacrifice?  Whichever  it  may  be,  there  is 
no  question  that  Repin's  heart  is  with  this  fearless,  exultant 
couple  in  their  hour  of  peril  or  of  triumph.  Although  Ilya 
Repin's  reputation  abroad  is  chiefly  due  to  the  larger,  more 
pictorial  compositions,  many  of  his  coimtrymen  claim  that  the 
portraits  represent  a  higher  level  of  attainment.  It  is  obvious 
that  these  likenesses  of  Tolstoy,  Pisemsky,  Mussorgsky,  Su- 
rikov,  Glinka,  Rubinstein,  and  dozens  of  statesmen,  authors, 
generals,  and  scientists  possess  matchless  precision  and  person- 
ality. They  are  invariably  vital  in  treatment  and  concise  in 
characterization.  Face  to  face  with  his  sitter,  Repin  is  a  rapid 
workman,  jealous  of  essentials  and  scornful  of  trivialities.  The 
prophet  of  Yasnaya  Polyana  he  has  painted  scores  of  times — 
behind  the  plough,  at  his  bare  writing-table,  or  strolling  abroad 
a  convinced  disciple  of  Father  Kneipp.  Not  only  has  Repin 
sketched,  modelled,  and  painted  Tolstoy,  but  he  has  also 
illustrated  a  mmaber  of  his  books.  Their  friendship,  like 
that  between  Bismarck  and  Lenbach,  has  extended  over 
many  years,  growing  ever  closer  as  the  time  of  parting  draws 
near. 

In  his  summer  studio  in  Finland,  or  his  roomy,  workmanlike 
quarters  in  the  Academy,  before  the  doors  of  which  he  once 
paused  an  imknown,  aspiring  provincial,  Repin  is  passing  the 
remainder  of  his  days.  Although  he  has  already  placed  to  his 
credit  a  lifetime  of  achievement,  creative  enthusiasm  still  per- 
sists. One  by  one  his  companions  have  gone,  leaving  him  an 
isolated  figure.  Of  those  who  lingered,  Makovsky  has  fallen 
sadly  behind  in  accomplishment,  and  his  early  champion,  the  late 
veteran  critic  Stassov,  never  wholly  forgave  him  for  returning  to 
the  Academy.  His  chief  source  of  pleasure  is  found  in  teaching, 
and  it  is  significant  to  note  that  his  pupils,  who  revere  him,  usu- 
ally carry  off  the  majority  of  the  official  prizes.    It  is  impossible 

[147] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

to  measure  the  extent  of  his  influence  upon  the  younger  men. 
The  most  brilliant  among  them,  such  as  Serov,  Maliavin,  Braz, 
Schmarov,  and  Ivanov,  owe  much  of  their  success  to  his  inspira- 
tion and  counsel.  Throughout  his  entire  career  Ilya  Repin  has 
remained  a  rebel  and  a  fighter,  an  enemy,  by  inference  at  least, 
of  Church  and  State.  The  political  as  well  as  the  artistic  influ- 
ence of  his  paintings  has  been  immense.  At  various  times  he 
has  approached  the  danger-line  of  audacity,  but  always,  instead 
of  his  being  disciplined,  the  offending  picture  has  been  pur- 
chased for  private  edification  by  the  Tsar  or  some  grand  duke. 
So  open  has  occasionally  been  popular  approval  of  his  more 
radical  works  that  they  have  been  removed  from  public  gaze 
within  a  few  hours  after  being  placed  on  exhibition.  At  the 
bare  feet  of  Leo  Tolstoy,  when  a  recent  portrait  of  him  was  first 
shown,  were  daily  heaped  so  many  floral  tributes  that  the  cau- 
tious authorities  were  moved  temporarily  to  sequester  the 
picture. 

The  invincible  naturalistic  tradition  represented  alike  by 
Repin  in  painting  and  by  his  contemporaries  in  letters  is  the 
legacy  of  their  day  and  generation.  Its  appeal  is  not  to  the 
imagination,  it  is  in  no  sense  an  ardent  revelation  of  the  soul,  but 
rather  a  convincing  transcription  of  the  outward  and  visible. 
Like  Turgenev,  Repin  is  one  of  those  instinctive  realists  who 
can  create  only  from  the  living  model.  Never,  even  in  his  most 
powerful  and  concentrated  moments,  does  he  wander  from  the 
wealth  of  fact  always  at  hand.  The  stricken,  tortured  coun- 
tenance of  Ivan's  dying  son  is  practically  a  portrait  of  poor, 
distraught  Garshin  in  the  final  stages  of  insanity  and  suicide. 
The  confused,  haimted  expression  on  the  face  of  the  exile  in 
'  The  Unexpected  Return  '  was  suggested  to  the  painter  by  the 
appearance  of  Dostoevsky  when  he  came  home  after  years  of 
Siberian  immolation.  Yet  it  need  not  be  assumed  that  Repin 
is  a  slave  to  the  literal  and  explicit.    The  predominant  quality 

[148] 


ILYA    EFIMOVITCH    REPIN 

of  his  work  is  its  emotional  and  scenic  intensity.  In  his  feel- 
ing for  art  there  seems  always  to  linger  the  vitalizing  magic 
of  things  fecund  and  elemental,  as  well  as  a  supreme  gift  for 
arrangement. 

Seated  in  his  quiet  studio  amid  the  gathering  twilight  of  late 
afternoon,  grey,  shaggy,  with  contracted  brow  and  keen,  ques- 
tioning eye,  you  instinctively  think  Repin  less  the  painter  or 
poet  than  the  man  of  science.  When  he  came  on  the  scene  the 
Byronic  outbursts  of  Pushkin  and  the  eloquent  heart-hunger  of 
Lermontov  had  long  since  been  swept  away;  the  age  of  obser- 
vation followed,  carrying  aU  before  it.  Imprisoned  between 
Byzantine  hierarchy  and  Gallic  prettiness  Repin  boldly  freed 
himself  and  became  a  convinced  apostle  of  nature.  It  was  the 
kingdom  of  earth  which  he  inherited,  not  the  shadowy,  elusive 
kingdom  of  dreams.  In  all  its  outlines  the  art  of  Repin  typifies 
the  painter's  own  specific  epoch;  it  definitely  incarnates  the 
temper  of  his  race  and  his  time.  Like  Courbet  in  France,  Ilya 
Repin  has  fought  almost  single-handed  a  long,  and  in  the  end, 
a  victorious  battle.  He  possesses,  too,  something  of  the  primal 
energy  of  the  sturdy  peasant  of  Omans,  but  to  that  quality  adds 
the  knowledge  and  graphic  mastery  of  Menzel.  And  yet,  how- 
ever formidable  his  achievement  may  now  seem,  it  is  by  no  means 
the  final  word  of  Russian  painting.  Already  a  younger  genera- 
tion is  pressing  close  about  him.  Just  as  Manet  dethroned  Cour- 
bet, and  Repin  dethroned  Brulov,  so  others  have  stepped  for- 
ward to  challenge  his  ascendancy.  Men  such  as  Serov,  Maliavin, 
Juon,  and  Grabar  have  lately  arisen  to  dispute,  or  at  least  to 
share,  the  position  of  Repin,  Korovin,  and  Levitan.  Natural- 
ism found  its  reply  in  impressionism,  which,  in  turn,  has  been 
modified  and  extended  by  the  individualist  and  the  symbolist. 
Weary  of  social  problems  and  the  sorrows  of  the  proletariat, 
sensitive  spirits  such  as  Somoff  and  Benois  glance  backward 
toward  the  eighteenth  century,  toward  the  gardens  of  Peterhof 

[149] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

and  the  leafy  arbours  of  Tsarskoye-Selo.  Nevertheless,  the 
painter  of  so  many  scenes  throbbing  with  life  and  truth  looks 
on  undisturbed,  for  he  knows  that  the  farther  these  pallid  fan- 
tasists wander  the  sooner  must  they  return  to  that  reality  which 
is  the  master  and  the  mistress  of  us  all. 

It  was  not  until  the  Paris  Exposition  of  1900  that  the  West- 
em  world  in  any  degree  realized  what  Russian  art  had  accom- 
plished, and  since  then  progress  has  been  relatively  more  en- 
couraging than  before.  As  though  after  a  long  slumber,  Slavonic 
painting  is  emerging  clear-eyed  and  refreshed,  choosing  what- 
ever suits  her  here  or  there,  yet  always  retaining  the  memory 
of  a  powerful  and  characteristic  inheritance.  While  numerous 
canvases  that  figure  annually  at  the  exhibitions  of  the  Mir 
Iskousstva  in  St.  Petersburg  or  the  Soyuz  in  Moscow  are  di- 
rectly traceable  to  the  influence  of  Repin,  newer  elements  have 
lately  been  in  evidence.  The  Russian  artist  who  now  goes  to 
Germany  comes  back  less  filled  with  the  studio  heroics  of  Piloty 
and  Makart  than  with  the  broad,  decorative  vision  of  Ziigel.  If 
it  happens  to  be  Paris  where  he  studies,  he  is  apt  to  return  with 
something  of  the  prismatic  fluency  of  Monet  or  Besnard  or  the 
psychic,  penetrant  evocation  of  Eugene  Carriere.  Yet  it  is  a 
wholesome  thing  for  these  yoimger  artists  to  go  abroad  and  de- 
velop technical  facility,  for  technique  is  precisely  what  Slavonic 
painting  has  thus  far  woefully  lacked.  There  is  little  groimd  to 
fear  that  foreign  trained  men  will  in  any  degree  drop  their  dis- 
tinctive flavour;  nationality  is  becoming  too  strong  a  factor  ever 
to  be  lost  sight  of.  Naturally  there  are  other  and  more  concise 
reasons  why  Russian  art  is  to-day  so  abundantly  racial  in  accent, 
the  most  important  being  the  exceptional  prominence  attained 
during  the  past  decade  by  the  Rural  Industries  movement.  At 
Abramtsevo,  Talachkino,  Somolenka,  and  other  provincial  cen- 
tres throughout  the  empire  have  been  established  schools  for 
assisting  and  directing  the  peasants  in  weaving,  dyeing,  em- 

[150] 


ILYA    EFIMOVITCH    REPIN 

broiderj,  wood-carving,  and  similar  branches  of  native  crafts- 
manship. By  going  back  to  the  naive  simplicity  of  early  orna- 
ment as  preserved  among  the  peasants,  and  by  supplementing  it 
with  modem  taste  and  invention  the  art  of  the  entire  coimtry 
has  been  enriched  and  fortified.  A  number  of  men,  among  whom 
are  Vrubel,  Malutin,  and  Golovin,  are  devoting  most  of  their 
energies  to  this  movement,  the  influence  of  which  on  painting 
as  well  as  interior  decoration  has  already  proved  considerable. 
It  seems,  indeed,  the  leavening  factor  in  Russian  art,  and  is 
but  another  and  saner  phase  of  that  **  going  to  the  people  " 
which  was  formerly  responsible  for  so  much  heartache  and 
heroism. 

Those  same  qualities  of  vigour,  sincerity,  and  fearless,  lucid 
presentation  which  established  the  supremacy  of  Russian  fiction 
should  achieve  a  similar  position  for  Russian  painting.  The 
salvation  of  Russian  art,  as  of  most  art,  lies  in  a  saving  sense  of 
nationalism.  It  is  particularly  true  of  Russia  that  her  best  ex- 
pression flows  direct  from  the  sap  of  popular  life  and  legend, 
and  to  an  instinctive,  almost  primitive,  love  of  colour  will  event- 
ually be  added  a  surer  outline  and  a  more  chastened  choice  of 
subject.  While  the  Society  of  Travelling  Exhibitions  does  much 
toward  stimulating  public  appreciation  in  the  various  social  and 
intellectual  foci  of  the  empire,  yet  the  peasant  who  lives  close 
to  the  heart  of  nature  and  who  spontaneously  translates  his  im- 
pressions into  outward  form  is  quite  as  important  as  his  urban 
brother.  These  humbler  souls,  so  beset  by  wistful  apprehension, 
and  so  full  of  artless  fantasy,  must  not  be  forgotten  in  any  sur- 
vey of  Russian  painting.  For  it  is  they  who,  in  large  measure, 
are  responsible  for  what  is  best  and  most  typical  in  an  art  which 
is  both  modem  and  barbaric,  both  insolent  and  tender.  Because 
these  same  misguided  muzhiks  are  still  pillaging  estates  and 
murdering  their  landlords,  it  need  not  be  assumed  even  by  con- 
firmed alarmists  that  the  coimtry  is  in  danger  of  being  torn 

[  151  ] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

asunder  and  forever  obliterated.  A  nation  which,  for  over  two 
centuries,  withstood  that  relentless  Mongol  domination  can  sur- 
vive a  few  months,  or  years,  of  economic  and  political  disrup- 
tion. The  red  flag  of  anarchy,  like  the  blue  banner  of  Jinghis 
Khan,  must  in  time  give  way  before  the  enigmatic  double-headed 
eagle  of  the  Palaeologus. 


[152] 


JOHN  S.  SARGENT 


JOHN    S.    SARGENT 

Portrait  of  the  artist  painted  by  himself 

[The  U^zi,  Florence'] 


JOHN  S.   8AEGENT 


SHE  stands  upon  a  glittering  crescent,  with  a  cobra  coiled 
at  her  feet.  About  her  floats  a  blue,  diaphanous  film. 
Her  robe  is  richly  embroidered  with  gold,  her  brow 
studded  with  jewels.  On  each  side  sway  the  devotees  of  a 
wanton,  voluptuous  dance,  while  beneath  writhe  the  victims  of 
her  desires,  one  torn  by  a  vulture,  the  other  being  devoured  by 
a  chimera.  She  is  Astarte,  the  moon  goddess,  seductive  and 
heartless.  When  she  first  came  to  London,  and  later  found  place 
in  the  Boston  Public  Library,  it  was  difficult  to  believe  that  she 
had  been  summoned  from  the  past  by  one  whose  energies  had 
so  long  been  confined  to  contemporary  portraiture.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  connection,  no  point  of  contact,  between  her  and 
the  lengthening  list  of  her  more  inquiet  and  modem  sisters. 
Even  now,  after  a  dozen-odd  years,  both  Astarte  and  her  setting 
are  a  source  of  mystery  alike  to  the  casual  spectator  and  the 
conventional  admirer  of  John  S.  Sargent.  Yet  instead  of  being 
an  enigma,  she  is  in  reality  the  key  to  the  work  of  a  painter  who 
presents  a  singularly  consistent  and  homogeneous  artistic  per- 
sonality. Beyond  all  question  he  is  the  most  conspicuous  of  liv- 
ing portrait  painters.  Before  his  eyes  pass  in  continuous  pro- 
cession the  world  of  art,  science,  and  letters,  the  world  financial, 
diplomatic,  or  military,  and  the  world  frankly  social.  To-day 
comes  a  savant,  a  captain  of  industry,  or  a  slender,  troubled 
child.  To-morrow  it  will  be  an  insinuating  Semitic  Plutus; 
next  week  may  bring  some  fresh-tinted  Diana,  radiant  with 

[155] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

vernal  bloom.  Everyone,  from  poet  to  general,  from  duchess 
to  dark-eyed  dancer,  finds  place  in  this  shifting  throng.  De- 
tached, at  times  indifferent,  he  looks  from  one  to  another  with 
incisive,  comprehending  glance,  and  transcribes  each  with  the 
same  incredible  assurance.  Personally  uncommunicative,  his 
art  is  the  epitome  of  lucidity.  His  vision  is  strictly  literal. 
Wonderfully  endowed,  he  dedicates  his  gifts  to  rendering  the 
outward  semblance  of  things,  to  reflecting  that  which  is  explicit 
and  external.  He  is  in  no  sense  a  painter  of  thought,  or  of  feel- 
ings other  than  those  which  are  plainly  etched  upon  the  human 
countenance.  He  is  but  secondarily,  even,  a  painter  of  colour. 
That  to  which  he  devotes  his  incomparable  talents  is  the  texture, 
form,  and  shape  of  objects.  His  only  kingdom  is  the  kingdom 
of  the  eye,  and  this  kingdom  he  restricts  to  mere  physical  ap- 
pearance. 

With  the  entrance  of  Sargent  into  the  arena  of  art  cherished 
conventions  disappear  in  sorry  discomfiture.  With  a  dignity 
and  a  technical  mastery  which  compel  both  respect  and  enthusi- 
asm he  tramples  upon  tradition  whenever  tradition  stands  in 
his  way.  It  is  useless  to  scan  these  canvases  in  the  hope  of  find- 
ing various  qualities  which  for  centuries  have  been  deemed  the 
touchstones  of  portraiture.  Contemplation  and  reflection  are 
by  no  means  the  rule.  That  fine  adjustment  of  diverse  elements 
which  makes  for  balanced  composition  is  often  lacking.  That 
endearing  love  of  tone  for  its  own  sake  is  frequently  absent. 
The  vigorous  outline  of  Holbein,  the  rich  sobriety  of  Titian,  or 
the  permeating  magic  of  Leonardo  find  but  faint  echo  in  the 
work  of  this  modern  innovator.  With  almost  disdainful  inde- 
pendence he  has  declined  to  repeat  the  triumphs  of  the  great 
forerimners.  In  place  of  their  ideals  he  has  substituted  ideals 
which  are  resolutely  his  own.  However  you  may  regard  his 
contribution,  it  is  impossible  not  to  recognize  its  insistent  nov- 
elty.   Once  in  possession  of  the  underlying  facts,  there  should 

[156] 


JOHN    S.     SARGENT 

be  no  trouble  in  reading  aright  this  salient,  positive  art,  this  art 
which  by  turns  persuades  and  repels.  Yet  you  cannot  divine 
just  why  these  high-bred  women  are  so  animated,  or  why  the 
soldiers  and  statesmen  are  so  emphatic,  without  first  peering 
beneath  the  exterior.  Though  Sargent  may  himself  remain  dex- 
terously on  the  surface,  the  spectator  cannot.  It  is  not  enough 
to  watch  this  conjurer  perform  his  trick ;  we  must  see  how  it  is 
accomplished. 

So  dazzled  has  the  majority  been  by  what  is  called  the  man's 
cosmopolitanism  that  the  real  racial  basis  of  his  nature  has  been 
overlooked.  In  essence  this  much  discussed  quality  is  merely 
the  eclecticism  of  the  well-bom  and  travelled  American.  Just 
as  Whistler  was  American  in  temperament,  so  Sargent  is  Amer- 
ican in  his  fundamental  instincts.  His  adaptability  and  his  very 
lack  of  marked  bias  bespeak  the  native  complexity  of  his  origin. 
It  cannot  for  a  moment  be  maintained  that  the  French  paint 
themselves  as  Sargent  paints  them,  or  the  English  either.  His 
art  is  neither  Gallic  nor  British,  it  is  American,  and  the  chief 
reason  why  it  is  so  different  from  most  Anglo-Saxon  art  is  be- 
cause it  is  so  superior,  not  because  it  is  unAmerican.  Born  in 
Florence,  12  January  1856,  educated  in  Germany  and  Italy,  a 
student  at  the  Florence  Academy  and  a  pupil  of  Carolus-Duran, 
in  Paris,  it  is  not  difficult  to  perceive  that  Sargent's  point  of 
view  must  inevitably  be  that  of  an  unattached  observer.  En- 
tirely without  local  background,  he  has  remained  all  his  life  an 
onlooker.  Wherever  he  has  lived  or  wandered  he  has  been  ab- 
sorbed by  certain  definite  pictorial  possibilities,  and  by  the  per- 
sonal idiosyncrasies  of  those  about  him.  To  the  trained  analysis 
of  a  physician  father  and  the  artistic  enthusiasm  of  a  mother 
who  herself  painted  well,  was  added  his  own  innate  receptivity. 
Nothing  could  have  been  more  fortunate  than  the  way  inclina- 
tion and  the  turn  of  circumstance  conspired  to  perfect  his 
youthful  ability  and  create  within  him  that  vitality  of  style 

[157] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

which  so  soon  became  manifest.  Whatever  tendencies  he  may- 
have  had  toward  speciousness  were  early  held  in  check  by  an 
old-world  restraint,  the  gift  of  a  city  wherein  art  has  become  a 
hallowed  instinct.  But  in  order  that  the  spirit  of  things  past 
might  not  press  too  heavily  upon  creative  power,  he  left  Florence 
at  precisely  the  right  age  for  Paris,  where  all  he  had  absorbed 
became  quickly  utilized.  He  lingered  just  long  enough,  yet  not 
too  long,  under  the  shadow  of  the  masters  of  the  Pitti  and  the 
TJffizi  beside  whose  work  his  own  portrait  was  one  day  to  hang. 

It  was  in  1874,  when  he  was  but  eighteen,  that  the  tall,  slen- 
der youth  and  his  grey-haired  father  knocked  at  the  doors  of 
Carolus-Duran's  atelier  in  the  boulevard  du  Montparnasse.  Di- 
rectly he  examined  the  portfolio  of  sketches  the  lad  had  brought, 
Carolus  accepted  him  as  a  pupil.  They  were  not  in  the  least 
brilliant  or  dashing;  most  of  them  were  in  fact  minute  and 
painstaking  copies  or  details  accurately  traced  from  nature,  yet 
they  were  sufficient  to  arouse  the  interest  of  his  future  master. 
Although  the  painter  of  *  The  Lady  with  the  Glove  '  and  *  Mile. 
Croizette  '  has  since  sadly  lost  ground,  it  is  doubtful  whether  a 
beginner  could  at  that  period  have  found  anywhere  in  Europe 
a  more  efficient  preceptor.  An  adept  in  the  direct,  fluent  laying- 
on  of  pure,  fresh  colour,  a  man  whose  sense  of  construction  was 
sound,  whose  eye  for  values  was  exact,  whose  handling  was  spir- 
ited, and  whose  whole  manner  was  effective  and  mundane,  if 
superficial,  Carolus  had  little  difficulty  in  fostering  a  talent  in 
many  regards  so  closely  akin  to  his  own.  They  were  earnest, 
industrious  times,  those  Paris  student  days,  and  no  one  worked 
more  assiduously  than  the  reserved,  even  diffident,  yoimg  Ameri- 
can who  not  only  attended  his  classes  imder  Carolus  but  also 
studied  at  the  Beaux- Arts  and  drew  from  the  model  at  an  even- 
ing life-class.  Being  particularly  fond  of  music,  the  routine 
was  now  and  then  broken  by  certain  memorable  Simday  after- 
noon concerts  at  the  Chatelet  or  the  Cirque  d'Hiver.    Although 

[158] 


MME.    GAUTREAU 
By  John  S.  Sargent 
[Possession  of  the  artist^ 


JOHN    S.    SARGENT 

he  did  not  advance  with  undue  haste,  it  was  not  long  before  he 
had  acquired  that  control  over  his  medium  which  is  both  the 
delight  and  the  despair  of  his  generation.  Even  as  a  student  he 
could  cover  an  entire  canvas  while  his  atelier  companions  were 
laboriously  blocking  in  a  single  head. 

In  the  way  of  valedictory  the  pupil  painted  a  seated  portrait 
of  his  master  which  was  both  the  summary  of  all  he  had  learned 
and  a  resolute  promise  of  future  attainment.  He  was  already 
mature  in  point  of  decision  and  that  easy  solution  of  technical 
problems  which  is  supposed  to  come  with  time  alone.  Follow- 
ing the  lead  of  Carolus,  he  acquired  the  habit  of  representing 
bodies  by  mass  rather  than  by  outline,  each  brush  stroke  corre- 
sponding as  nearly  as  possible  in  size,  shape,  and  local  coloiu*  to 
the  object  itself.  Still  more  important  was  his  faculty  of  in- 
stantaneous perception,  his  ability  to  see  at  a  single  glance  and 
in  its  entirety  either  an  isolated  individual  or  a  group  of  figures. 
It  was  a  formula  which  had  descended  direct  from  the  incom- 
parable painter  of  *  The  Maids  of  Honour,'  *  The  Tapestry 
Weavers,'  and  *  The  Surrender  of  Breda,'  but  under  Sargent's 
ready  initiative  it  became  expanded  as  well  as  simplified. 
Whereas  Velazquez  and  Manet  were  also  imaginative  impres- 
sionists, their  younger  apostle  became  a  purely  visual  impres- 
sionist. A  quiet  deliberation  marks  even  the  most  rapid  and 
vital  of  their  work.  It  remained  for  the  American  to  apply  to 
portraiture  the  principle  of  immediacy,  to  express  that  which 
is  transient  and  momentary  rather  than  that  which  is  habitual 
and  permanent.  Until  Sargent's  day  it  had  been  generally  sup- 
posed that  a  portrait  should  record  a  composite  of  moods,  that 
it  should  offer,  in  a  sense,  a  continuous  revelation  of  the  sitter. 
With  a  few  swift,  nervous  strokes  he  has  changed  all  this,  he 
gives  us  personality  in  a  single  epitomizing  flash.  In  its  final 
stage  this  art  illustrates  the  difference  between  perception  and 
apperception. 

[159] 


MODEEN    ARTISTS 

Study  in  succession  these  vivacious  likenesses  and  you  will 
the  better  realize  that  which  Sargent  has  accomplished,  you  will, 
indeed,  find  something  which  painting  has  never  before  achieved. 
Velazquez's  little  *  Baltasar  Carlos  '  on  his  plunging  pony 
scarcely  suggests  motion ;  the  pictorial  couple  in  Gainsborough's 
*  Morning  Walk  '  is  really  stationary,  but  in  Sargent's  portraits 
women  are  in  the  act  of  starting  from  their  chairs  and  men  are 
on  the  very  point  of  speaking.  Here  is  a  dancer  whose  yellow 
skirt  still  swirls  in  elastic  convolutions ;  there  stands  a  painter 
lunging  at  the  canvas  with  sensitively  poised  brush.  All  is  rest- 
less, vivid,  spontaneous.  One  and  all  these  creatures  vibrate 
with  the  nervous  tension  of  the  age.  Other  artists  have  given 
us  calm,  or  momentarily  arrested  motion.  Sargent  gives  us 
motion  itself.  His  art  is  kinetoscopic.  With  a  technique  as 
facile  as  it  is  assertive  this  magician  of  the  palette,  this  Paga- 
nini  of  portraiture,  has  lured  us  into  a  new  world,  a  world  which 
we  ourselves  know  well — perhaps  too  well — ^but  a  world  hitherto 
undiscovered  by  painting.  Moreover,  he  has  taken  us  a  long 
way.  We  have  in  truth  travelled  far  from  where  *  Jane  Sey- 
mour '  stands  with  her  jewelled  fingers  tightly  clasped,  or  *  La 
Gioconda  '  muses  beside  immemorial  rocks  and  silent  waters. 
Though  you  may  not  relish  the  triumphs  of  this  younger  master 
you  cannot  escape  them.  While  you  may  keenly  feel  the  lack 
of  repose  in  these  portraits  you  cannot  deny  their  veracity  or 
their  vitality.  Yet,  after  all,  is  this  neurosis,  or  is  it  art  ?  Per- 
haps it  is  both.  In  any  case  the  sense  of  motion,  either  sug- 
gested or  expressed,  remains  Sargent's  personal  conquest,  pos- 
sibly, even,  his  chief  contribution  to  portraiture. 

On  leaving  Carolus-Duran  he  took  a  studio  in  the  rue  Notre-*ii^^^ 
Dame-des-Champs,  later  moving  over  to  the  more  spacious 
boulevard  Berthier.    It  was  only  necessary  for  him  to  paint  a 
dozen  or  so  portraits  in  order  to  obtain  international  recogni- 
tion.   The  eloquent  *  Carolus  '  was  succeeded  by  an  effective 

[160] 


JOHN    S.    SARGENT 

presentation  of  *  Dr.  Pozzi '  which  still  looks  from  the  walls  of 
the  distinguished  specialist's  hotel  in  the  avenue  d'lena.  The 
*  Portrait  of  a  Young  Lady/  *  Mme.  Pailleron,'  and  a  standing 
full-length  silhouette  of  ^  Mme.  Gautreau,'  as  sensitive  as  it  was 
decisive,  soon  followed.  Conceived  in  the  vein  of  a  modernized 
Primitive,  this  last-named  canvas  proved  a  veritable  storm- 
centre.  It  is  Piero  della  Francesca,  not,  as  has  been  presumed, 
Botticelli  whom  this  much  discussed  likeness  recalls.  Violently 
denounced  and  quite  as  vehemently  praised,  it  added  substan- 
tially to  the  painter's  fame,  and  proved,  to  a  certain  extent,  the 
turning-point  of  his  career.  From  ^  Mme.  Gautreau  '  onward 
he  leaves  behind  the  stamp  of  previous  effort.  The  delicate 
mellowness  of  the  *  Portrait  of  a  Young  Lady  '  and  above  all 
the  soft,  liquid  beauty  of  the  little-known  likeness  of  *  Mrs. 
Austen  '  dressed  in  cream-white  satin  with  a  black  bow  at  the 
neck  and  a  bouquet  of  dark  red  roses  at  her  breast,  are  seldom 
seen  again.  One  after  another  these  qualities  are  replaced  by 
characteristics  more  specifically  personal.  In  1884,  after  just  a 
decade  in  the  French  capital,  which  had  been  broken  by  a  brief 
visit  to  the  United  States  and  a  few  months'  sojourn  in  Spain, 
Tangier,  Morocco,  and  southern  Italy,  Sargent  was  induced  to 
move  across  to  London.  He  resided  at  first  in  Kensington,  later 
taking  the  now  famous  house  in  Tite  Street,  Chelsea,  with  its 
mottled  brick,  pointed  Dutch  roof,  and  irregular  windows.  He 
executed  portraits  as  before,  among  others  those  of  *  Mrs.  Henry 
White,'  *  Lady  Playfair,'  and  ^  The  Misses  Vickers,'  but  just 
as  he  had  once  sought  greater  freedom  in  ^  El  Jaleo,'  so  he  again 
varied  his  manner  with  *  Carnation,  Lily,  Lily,  Rose.'  Painted 
at  Broadway  during  the  lingering  summer  twilight,  this  picture, 
so  imbued  with  frank  grace,  charm  of  colour,  and  a  distinct 
though  largely  accidental  symmetry  of  pattern,  continues  to 
occupy  a  place  quite  apart  from  the  main  body  of  Sargent's  art. 
Exhibited  at  the  Royal  Academy  in  1887,  it  was  purchased  the 

[161] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

same  year  for  the  nation  by  the  trustees  of  the  Chantrey  Fund, 
a  fact  which  doubtless  strengthened  the  painter  *s  inclination  to 
settle  permanently  in  England. 

As  the  ever  widening  panorama  of  his  British  and  American 
work  unrolls  itself  before  the  eye  in  all  its  clarity  of  tone  and 
fluency  of  treatment,  it  is  only  necessary  to  consider  in  detail 
a  few  of  the  more  significant  canvases.  The  man^s  productivity 
is  astounding.  Only  the  Titans  of  art  have  here  surpassed  him, 
and  by  a  narrow  margin  at  that.  He  will  occasionally  avail 
himself  of  the  full  member's  right  to  exhibit  eight  pictures  at 
Burlington  House,  besides  sending  four  or  five  subjects  to  the 
New  Gallery  or  elsewhere.  As  a  rule  his  single  figures  main- 
tain the  highest  average  of  merit,  the  larger  groups  such  as 

*  Lady  Elcho,  Mrs.  Tennant,  and  Mrs.  Adeane,'  *  The  Ladies 
Alexandra,  Mary,  and  Theo  Acheson,'  and  *  The  Misses  Hun- 
ter,* being  more  problematic.  The  scattered  arrangement,  the 
violent  foreshortening,  and  the  various  lines  forced  into  rela- 
tion tend  to  give  these  subjects  a  decided  lack  of  equilibrium. 
Moreover,  an  artist  so  definitely  modern  as  Sargent  is  not  at 
home  in  the  pictorial  realm  of  the  eighteenth  century.  He  is 
not  a  composer,  or  a  ready  improvisor,  he  is  an  observer  pure 
and  simple  and  when  he  relies  upon  nature  alone  he  never  goes 
astray.  While  the  majority  of  these  inquisitive  creatures  in 
iridescent  satin  or  figured  silk  may  look  overvolatile,  and  while 
these  men  in  street  dress  or  braided  uniforms  may  seem  a  shade 
too  imperative,  you  will  now  and  then  find  countenances  upon 
which  nought  is  written  save  quiet  benignity,  such  as  those  of 

*  Mrs.  Marquand  '  and  *  Miss  Octavia  Hill.'  It  is  by  no  means 
a  restricted  choice  that  Sargent  exercises.  Next  to  a  lithe,  fox- 
hunting lord  comes  a  little  lady  in  quaint,  full  robe  and  fancy 
cap,  who  may  some  day  rank  beside  Titian's  '  Princess  Strozzi.' 
He  has  always  displayed  a  special  tenderness  for  children — 
here  they  play  about  a  great  hallway  where  taU  vases  are  re- 

[162] 


EGYPTIAN    WOMAN    WITH    COIN    NECKLACE 

By  John  S.  Sargent 
[Courtesy  of  the  artist] 


JOHN    S.     SARGENT 

fleeted  in  the  polished  floor,  there  they  peep  over  the  back  of  a 
Louis-Seize  sofa  upon  which  is  perched  a  vivacious  mother  in 
shell-pink  evening  gown.  Wherever  you  turn  you  will  be 
greeted  by  spirited,  forceful  canvases,  marked  by  a  particular 
zest  for  exterior  effects  and  revealing  a  concise,  and  for  the 
moment  convincing,  grasp  of  character.  Although  individual, 
this  art  by  no  means  stands  apart  from  the  main  current  of  con- 
temporary social  as  well  as  aesthetic  expression.  It  is  of  course 
realistic  in  flavour,  yet  it  is  the  realism  of  elegant  surroundings, 
of  rich  appointments,  and  well-bred  types.  It  is,  in  short,  the 
realism  of  modem  refinement.  Wealth  having  been  won  after 
niunerous  hard-fought  battles,  the  man  of  the  present  luxuriates 
in  a  superbly  ornamental  *  Venetian  Interior.'  While  his  chief 
predecessor  in  England  had  come  across  from  Flanders  to  be 
the  painter  of  aristocracy,  John  S.  Sargent  will  go  down  to 
posterity  as  the  painter  of  its  latter-day  equivalent — plutocracy. 
Caring  little  for  society,  Sargent  devotes  his  entire  energies 
to  the  practice  of  his  craft.  His  industry  and  persistence  are 
unremitting,  he  having  often  been  known  to  paint  a  single  head 
over  a  score  or  more  of  times  before  being  satisfied  with  the 
result.  No  pains  are  spared  in  order  to  acquire  that  appearance 
of  ease  and  spontaneity  which  he  perhaps  prizes  beyond  all  else. 
His  art  is  the  antithesis  of  the  art  of  Watts.  The  one  is  the 
glorification  of  matter;  the  other,  the  glorification  of  manner. 
With  Watts  theme  was  everything ;  with  Sargent  treatment  al- 
ways comes  first.  He  does  not  pretend  to  gauge  the  relative 
mental  or  moral  value  of  that  which  has  been  put  into  the  world ; 
he  contents  himself  with  placing  on  record  whatever  he  finds 
most  congenial  to  his  tastes  and  temperament.  Although  inun- 
dated with  commissions,  nevertheless,  when  haste  and  overpro- 
duction begin  to  exact  their  relentless  toll,  or  when  something 
of  that  world-weariness  which  pursued  van  Dyck  steals  upon 
him,  he  usually  has  the  com-age  to  leave  his  London  studio  and 

[163] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

seek  a  new  province,  a  resplendent,  colourful  realm.  And  where 
is  this  fair  kingdom  ?  It  is  the  kingdom  wherein  we  left  Astarte 
poised  upon  her  gleaming  crescent,  exhaling  warm  tints  and 
exotic  perfumes,  the  sound  of  the  sistrum  still  falling  upon  her 
gold-tipped  ears.  You  will  possibly  be  surprised  to  learn  that 
this  correct,  urban  man  is  something  of  an  Asiatic,  that  he  loves 
with  consuming  intensity  the  glare  of  the  sim  and  the  sultry 
magic  of  long-robed  Orientals.  In  the  art  of  John  S.  Sargent 
the  blue- veiled  Phoenician  goddess  of  the  Boston  Library  by  no 
means  dwells  alone.  She  had  her  prologue  years  before  with 
the  Moorish  woman  in  *  Smoke  of  Ambergris  '  holding  the  folds 
of  a  white  mantle  about  her  head  like  a  canopy  in  order  to  catch 
the  narcotic  fragrance  circling  upward  in  thin,  vapoury  spirals. 
Under  one  guise  or  another  this  same  creature  appears  again 
and  again.  Now  she  is  a  discreet  social  sphinx,  now  a  slender 
Nile  girl  slowly  braiding  her  dark  hair,  or  a  swarthy  desert 
beauty  bedecked  with  rich  ornaments.  The  painter  ^s  interest 
in  this  type  is  not  episodic,  it  is  persistent.  Throughout  his 
career  the  models  in  which  he  has  been  most  absorbed  are  not 
the  products  of  polite  convention  but  those  individuals  one 
meets  by  chance  or  seeks  out  in  sheer  zest.  A  distinct  sympathy 
with  Southern  life  has  always  shown  itself  in  Sargent's  work. 
Whenever  he  travels  it  is  preferably  to  Spain,  Tangier,  Mo- 
rocco, Sicily,  Egypt,  or  Palestine.  He  seems  drawn  toward 
these  countries  by  an  irresistible  affinity.  When  not  sketching 
along  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean,  in  the  by-streets  of 
Venice,  or  the  olive  groves  of  Capri,  he  manages  to  discover 
the  same  or  kindred  subjects  wherever  he  may  happen  to  be. 
In  New  York  he  forsakes  a  Knickerbocker  sitter  in  order  to 
paint  *  Carmencita.'  At  the  Paris  Exposition  he  nervously 
dashes  off  drawings  of  the  Javanese  dancers.  His  greatest  suc- 
cesses in  London  have  been  his  portraits  of  the  astute  aris- 
tocracy of  finance  rather  than  those  of  the  more  complacent 

[164] 


JOHN    S.     SARGENT 

aristocracy  of  blood.  Glance,  for  confirmation,  at  '  Asher 
Wertheimer,'  *  The  Misses  Wertheimer,  *  *  Mrs.  Carl  Meyer  and 
Children,'  or  *  Mrs.  Leopold  Hirsch.'  Indeed,  as  a  painter  of 
Semitic  types  he  has  scarcely  had  an  equal  since  the  day  their 
greatest  interpreter  lived  and  suffered  in  the  garrets  and  pot- 
houses of  Amsterdam.  -.  "(Ii.4n.*'v4>'\3»^  P^'^'lJ-^v 

They  are  not  claimed  as  masterpieces,  these  rapid,  graphic 
sketches  such  as  the  *  Capri  Girl,'  the  *  Italian  with  Rope,'  the 
*  Egyptian  Woman,'  or  the  *  Bedouin  Arab.'  They  are  mere 
memoranda  betraying  undisguised  joy  of  observation  and  exe- 
cution. There  is  no  fatigue  here.  All  is  fresh,  native,  and 
racial.  That  gift  of  ethnic  delineation  which  makes  it  possible 
to  recognize  at  a  glance  the  nationality  of  Sargent's  sitters  is 
even  more  in  evidence  in  his  oriental  personalia.  Although 
they  are  the  reverse  of  painstaking,  no  really  important  detail 
appears  to  have  escaped  him.  The  same  spirit  of  accurate 
transcription  distinguishes  the  larger  compositions,  which, 
while  fewer  in  number,  are  relatively  more  significant.  The 
'  Street  in  Venice  '  with  its  shawl-wrapped  figure  hastening 
past  a  couple  of  curious  idlers,  and  the  *  Venetian  Bead  String- 
ers '  showing  three  busy  workers  in  a  dim  interior  are  among 
the  earliest  and  best  of  these  casual  impressions.  In  the  most 
incidental  manner  and  without  the  slightest  pretence  he  gives 
us  a  series  of  unforgettable  portraits  of  place.  In  *  El  Jaleo  ' 
and  *  A  Spanish  Dance  '  he  displays  a  concentrated  frenzy  of 
movement  attained  only  by  such  men  as  Goya,  Degas,  and  cer- 
tain of  the  later  Parisians.  And,  besides,  there  is  a  purely  Latin 
touch  of  the  diabolic  in  both  these  latter  scenes  which  is  difficult 
to  reconcile  with  the  chief  living  exponent  of  Anglo-Saxon 
portraiture. 

Although  many  of  these  studies  were  made  early  in  his  career 
Sargent  has  never  forsaken  the  field  of  informal  endeavour. 
Almost  every  season  he  returns  to  it  with  increasing  zeal,  usu- 

[165] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

ally  exhibiting  at  the  New  Gallery  the  souvenirs  of  his  various 
trips.  Of  late  Asia  Minor  has  been  his  favourite  sketching 
ground.  While  *  The  Garden  of  Gethsemane  *  was  in  no  way 
exceptional,  he  has  never,  for  implied  spirituality,  approached 

*  Padre  Albera,'  seated  at  his  writing  table  with  books  and  per- 
sonal effects  strewn  about  his  cloisteral  retreat,  nor  has  he  ever, 
for  downright  luminosity,  surpassed  that  dazzliug,  coruscated 
strip  of  *  Syrian  Landscape  '  with  its  stimted  trees  standing 
sharp  against  the  sky,  its  flock  of  long-haired  sheep,  and  solitary 
shepherd  in  his  fez,  leaning  over  the  wall.    Whether  they  show 

*  The  Moimtains  of  Moab  '  or  subjects  less  momentous  these 
colour  records  are  always  brilliant,  always  vivid.  They  often 
fairly  crackle  with  light.  It  is  indeed  light  which  they  show 
more  than  anything  else,  for  they  rarely  or  never  suggest  air. 
Though  in  his  earlier  days  Sargent  spent  a  smmner  or  so  with 
Monet,  and  has  long  evinced  an  interest  in  problems  of  colour, 
he  seldom  attains  that  vibrancy  of  tone  which  is  the  particular 
triumph  of  the  modem  palette.  As  a  portraitist  he  has  remained 
untouched  by  radical  impressionism,  and  in  his  outdoor  diver- 
sions he  has  failed  to  solve  this  latest  and  most  subtle  of  nature's 
secrets.  It  would  of  course  be  whimsical  too  strongly  to  insist 
upon  the  Asiatic  touch  which  permeates  so  much  of  this  work, 
yet  it  seems  an  inherent  characteristic.  Is  it  the  pallidness  and 
artistic  poverty  of  western  existence  which  drives  him  toward 
the  rising  sun,  or  is  it  some  obscure  call  of  the  blood  ?  It  must 
be  either,  or  both,  otherwise  it  is  difficult  to  account  for  many 
things,  not  the  least  among  which  is  the  apt  assimilation  of 
oriental  motives  displayed  in  the  Boston  Library  decorations, 
wherein  he  has  embodied  with  so  much  adroitness  not  only  the 
conventions,  but  the  actual  spirit  of  Assyrian  and  Egyptian  art. 
Again,  in  the  *  Dogma  of  the  Redemption,'  with  its  dim  blues, 
dull  reds,  and  mellow  golds,  he  has  caught  with  more  than  a 
copyist's  trick  the  archaic  beauty  and  impersonality  of  the 

[166] 


LORD    RIBBLESDALE 

By  John  S.  Sargent 

l^Possession  of  Lord  Ribblesdale,  London'\ 


JOHN    S.     SARGENT 

Byzantine  tradition.  The  portraits  themselves  show  certain 
kindred  qualities,  such  as  a  love  of  accessories  and  a  constant 
insistence  upon  tapestried  screens,  pottery,  and  bric-a-brac  in 
general.  And  deeper  still  lurk  traces  of  cynicism,  of  indiffer- 
ence to  humanity,  of  that  almost  contemptuous  submission  to 
the  tyranny  of  his  calling  so  often  the  legacy  of  those  whose 
eyes  have  been  turned  toward  the  enigmatic  East. 

Despite  his  unchallenged  supremacy,  it  is  not  immediately 
obvious  that  John  S.  Sargent  stands  quite  where  he  should,  nor 
is  it  altogether  clear  that  he  has  kept  the  promises  of  youth. 
He  was  given  much  at  the  outset,  hence  much  may  be  expected 
in  return.  The  recipient  of  an  honourable  mention  and  hors 
concours  in  the  early  twenties,  and  a  Royal  Academician  by 
the  time  he  had  barely  turned  forty,  he  has  always  been  a  sort 
of  Prince  Charming  of  art,  a  trifle  cold  and  unmoved,  it  is  true, 
but  phenomenally  fortunate.  He  has  worked  with  unrelaxing 
energy  and  enthusiasm,  yet  success  was  never  far  distant,  nor 
has  he  ever  been  compelled  to  look  a  cold  world  starkly  in  the 
face  and  ask  unanswered  questions.  No  artist  of  recent  times 
has  been  more  royally  equipped.  In  power  of  vision  and  tech- 
nical mastery  he  ranks  among  the  greatest.  Besnard  and  Zom 
are  his  only  rivals;  Rubens,  Hals,  and  Velazquez  are  scarcely 
his  peers.  It  is  a  question,  however,  whether  this  dexterity  has 
not  tended  to  encourage  a  lack  of  hmnility  when  confronted 
with  the  graver  problems  of  the  situation.  There  is  a  danger 
of  so  much  facility  becoming  perverted  or  remaining  an  end 
in  itself  rather  than  a  means  to  some  higher  end.  And  yet  on 
the  other  hand  it  may  become,  and  it  often  does  with  Sargent, 
a  legitimate  source  of  emotional  pleasure.  No  one  has  carried 
technique  farther  than  he  or  given  it  such  a  degree  of  expres- 
sional  significance.  In  spite  of  his  keen  eye  for  race  distinctions 
and  the  subtle  variations  of  type  or  class,  it  cannot  be  main- 
tained that   Sargent's   versions   of   character   are  profound. 

[167] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

Though  often  shrewdly  diagnostic,  they  are  seldom  more  than 
that.  He  rarely  seeks  to  lift  the  veil  of  mystery  or  interroga- 
tion which  enshrouds  less  emphatic  temperaments.  His  vision 
is  local,  not  general.  That  which  he  so  efficiently  gives  us  is  not 
so  much  personality  as  personalities.  He  possesses  sight,  rather 
than  insight;  and  much  of  his  supposed  psychology  reduces 
itself  in  the  final  analysis  to  mere  physiology.  It  is  of  course 
absurd  to  accuse  such  a  flawless  mechanism  of  any  desire  to 
distort  or  to  exaggerate  personal  imperfections.  It  is  not  the 
painter's  business  to  sit  in  judgment  upon  those  who  come  to 
his  studio,  and  though  he  may  possibly  in  his  youth  have  been 
touched  by  the  Marah-rod  of  bitterness,  his  canvases  in  the 
main  display  an  abundance  of  wholesome  impartiality. 

Passing  in  review  Sargent's  production  as  a  whole  in  all  its 
specific,  audacious  brilliance,  it  becomes  increasingly  evident 
that  his  gifts  have  been  those  of  the  senses  rather  than  those 
of  the  spirit — gifts  of  eye  and  hand  rather  than  of  mind  or 
heart.  He  has  achieved  as  no  one  else  that  particular  accent 
of  to-day  which  is  at  once  our  pride  and  our  reproach,  but  just 
how  much  he  has  enriched  the  sum  of  beauty  already  in  the 
world,  or  just  how  much  he  has  increased  man's  love  for  man, 
or  for  woman,  is  an  open  question.  At  the  present  moment 
these  creatures  whom  his  brush  has  called  into  being  seem  im- 
patient and  unsatisfied  as  well  as  imsatisfjring.  Yet  doubtless 
they  will  soon  glide  into  their  place  in  the  perspective  of  art, 
taking  on  that  indwelling  serenity  which  alone  is  the  gift  of 
time,  and  which,  when  deserved,  time  seldom  withholds.  In 
each  of  its  manifestations  this  art  proves  itself  to  be  essentially 
concrete  and  objective.  It  is  not  an  art  of  penetration  or  aspira- 
tion, it  is  an  art  of  superficies.  No  concessions  are  made  either 
to  background  or  to  sitter.  No  feats  of  mental  metamorphosis 
are  attempted  in  order  to  get  inside  of  character.  All  propen- 
sities moral,   sentimental,   or  literary,   are  rigidly  debarred. 

[168] 


JOHN    S.     SARGENT 

Conscious  intervention  of  every  description  has  disappeared. 
The  elaborate  simplicity  of  Whistler  is  scorned,  for  at  his  best 
Sargent  neither  arranges  nor  composes  but  takes  both  man  and 
nature  as  he  finds  them.  He  cares  little,  even,  for  flesh  tints, 
often  painting  faces  with  precisely  the  same  broad  stroke  as  he 
does  fabrics.  While  he  does  not  deliberately  dehumanize  hu- 
manity, he  takes  no  pains  to  enforce  the  human  note,  nor  does 
he  borrow  from  his  subjects  the  slightest  adventitious  assistance 
or  sympathy.  Though  it  may  not  be  the  last,  this  work  is  as- 
suredly the  latest  and  most  marked  stage  in  the  evolution  of 
painting  toward  complete  independence  of  choice  and  treat- 
ment. It  is  the  most  defiant  assertion  yet  seen  of  the  autonomy 
of  art. 


[169] 


JOHN  LAVERY 


FATHER    AND    DAUGHTER 

Portrait  of  John  Lavery  and  his   daughter  Eileen,  by  the   artist 

[The  Luxembourg,  Paris^ 


JOim  LAVERY 


WHILE  it  is  possible  that  the  love  of  beauty  drifted 
inward  from  the  sea,  or  was  blown  to  Glasgow  fresh 
from  Highland  glen  or  brae,  it  is  equally  probable 
that  there  was  something  definite  in  the  social  and  psychic  con- 
ditions of  the  thrifty  city  on  the  Clyde  which  called  art  into 
being.  Humanity  has  a  ready  faculty  for  supplementing  nat- 
ural deficiencies,  and,  moreover,  nothing  is  farther  from  the 
truth  than  the  contention  that  art  cannot  flourish  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  industrialism.  Those  teeming  commercial  centres 
of  the  past,  such  as  Bruges,  Venice,  and  Amsterdam,  witness  the 
precise  contrary,  and  the  Glasgow  of  to-day  affords  a  not  un- 
fitting parallel.  As  usual,  outward  circumstances  played  an 
important  part  in  the  formation  of  taste  and  the  fostering  of 
those  particular  qualities  which  were  later  to  reveal  themselves 
in  a  deeper,  more  resonant  chord  of  colour  and  a  thrill  of  genu- 
ine romantic  aspiration.  Almost  a  score  of  years  before  Eng- 
land or  America  appreciated  Continental  landscape  there  ex- 
isted north  of  the  Tweed  numerous  private  houses  rich  in  the 
works  of  the  grave  Barbizon  masters,  the  sober  painters  of  Hol- 
land, and  the  tone  visions  of  that  smnptuous  rhapsodist,  Adolphe 
Monticelli.  While  permanent  displays  at  the  Corporation  Gal- 
leries, and  the  frequent  exhibition  of  the  Donald  and  similar 
collections  at  the  Royal  Glasgow  Institute  did  much  to  quicken 
artistic  perception,  it  was  the  International  Exhibitions  of  1886 
and  1888  at  Edinburgh  and  Glasgow  respectively  which  gave 

[173] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

the  present  movement  its  chief  impetus.  Jointly  they  exercised 
a  profound  influence  upon  several  of  the  younger  spirits  who 
were  endeavouring  to  free  themselves  from  the  soft  tyranny  of 
the  pretty  milkmaid  school  and  the  cumbersome  conservatism 
of  academic  authority.  In  addition,  those  few  pioneers  who 
were  fortimate  enough  to  study  in  Paris  brought  back  with 
them  an  invigourating  infusion  of  novel  aesthetic  principles. 
A  splendid  stand  was  taken  by  this  handful  of  enthusiastic 
aspirants.  Anecdotal  pictures  were  regarded  with  utter  con- 
tempt, and  the  bigwigs  of  British  art  were  openly  derided. 
Bound  together  in  common  revolt  against  precedent,  the  Boys 
of  Glasgow  soon  made  their  presence  felt.  For  the  most  part 
as  impecunious  and  unknown  as  they  were  aggressive,  they  had 
everything  to  win  and  nothing  to  lose,  and  win  they  did  in  gen- 
erous measure. 

It  nevertheless  took  the  discerning  eye  of  an  observant 
Teuton  to  gauge  at  its  full  value  Glasgow's  initial  contribution 
to  art.  The  field  at  home  being  restricted,  and  the  doors  of 
Burlington  House  closed  to  all  that  was  virile  and  spontaneous, 
the  group  exhibited  for  the  first  time  as  a  body  in  1890  at  the 
Grosvenor  Gallery  in  London.  Among  the  visitors  on  this  oc- 
casion chanced  to  be  a  certain  enlightened  Bavarian  known  as 
Herr  Adolf  Paulus,  who  was  so  favourably  impressed  by  what 
he  saw  that  he  immediately  posted  off  to  Glasgow,  met  several 
of  the  artists  in  person,  and  arranged  for  a  still  more  compre- 
hensive display  of  their  work  that  same  season  at  the  Munich 
Glaspalast.  So  complete  was  their  success,  and  so  strongly  did 
a  particular  clique  resent  the  appearance  of  these  Scottish  in- 
vaders, that  serious  differences  arose  in  official  art  circles  which 
eventually  led  to  a  separation  and  the  formation  of  the  still 
famous  though  somewhat  less  radical  Secession.  At  the  outset 
the  Glasgow  men  painted  mainly  landscapes;  later,  under  the 
influence  of  Whistler,  they  devoted  more  of  their  time  to  the 

[174] 


JOHN    LAVERY 

figure.  They  were  not  to  any  extent  an  organized  society.  They 
were  merely  a  number  of  independent  and  strongly  individual 
artists  held  together  by  the  stimulus  of  kindred  aims  and  ideals. 
While  they  used  often  to  gather  at  one  another  ^s  studios  to  dis- 
cuss their  pictures  and  decide  which  to  exhibit,  only  one  formal 
meeting  was  ever  held.  It  proved  a  signal  failure,  for  they  were 
painters,  not  parliamentarians ;  and  so  earnestly  did  they  devote 
themselves  to  the  cause  in  hand,  that,  with  rare  exceptions,  they 
became  famous  men.  A  few  have  gone  beyond  recall,  and  others 
have  long  since  left  their  stem,  seaborn  city,  but  most  of  them 
are  still  sending  forth  into  the  world  solemn,  glowing  stretches 
of  wood  and  meadow  or  portraits  which  seem  imbued  with  all 
the  chaste,  wistful  magic  of  the  North.  As  years  have  slipped 
by  their  prestige  on  the  Continent,  and  more  especially  in  Ger- 
many, has  increased,  rather  than  diminished.  Their  cohesive 
power  has  continued  strong.  They  always  exhibit  as  a  compact 
unit,  and  have  not  failed  measurably  to  influence  numerous 
foreign  artists,  among  them  the  landscape  painters  Ludwig  Dill 
and  Adolf  Hoelzel.  In  a  smaller,  though  none  the  less  important 
way,  their  appearance  in  Munich  suggests  the  debut  of  Boning- 
ton  and  Constable  at  the  Paris  Salon  over  three  quarters  of 
a  century  before.  They  have,  in  short,  added  a  chapter  to  the 
history  of  European  art. 

It  is  appropriately  whimsical  that  the  most  brilliant  and  ex- 
pressive product  of  the  Glasgow  School  should  not  be  a  Scotch- 
man at  all,  but  an  Irishman.  Because  he  resides  in  London,  and 
spends  so  much  of  his  time  abroad,  it  is  customary  to  speak  of 
John  Lavery  as  a  cosmopolitan.  Yet  in  point  of  fact  he  is  es- 
sentially of  the  North  and  West.  The  artist  who,  as  a  mere  lad, 
drifted  across  from  Belfast  to  Glasgow  still  reflects  that  frank- 
ness, that  innate  charm,  and  that  directness  of  statement  which 
are  so  typically  racial  and  Scotch-Irish.  From  the  very  first 
the  boy  seems  to  have  been  bent  on  becoming  a  painter.    In  his 

[175] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

early  teens  he  officiated  as  "  operator  ''  in  the  studio  of  Bell, 
of  Glasgow,  where,  in  addition  decorously  to  bowing  pompous 
patrons  in  and  out  of  the  establishment,  he  also  coloured  photo- 
graphic enlargements  by  hand.  Phenomenally  adept  at  this 
branch  of  work,  the  latent  portraitist  could  rarely  resist  widen- 
ing his  area  of  activity  by  giving  his  subjects  a  dash  of  character 
here  and  there  in  the  lines  of  brow  or  mouth  or  the  tilt  of  nose. 
Being  thrifty,  as  well  as  ambitious,  it  was  not  long  before  he 
was  able  to  attend  the  Haldane  Academy  of  Art  where,  in  the 
company  of  Alexander  Roche  and  other  future  Glasgow  paint- 
ers, his  artistic  training  was  formally  begun.  The  two  friends 
were  totally  unlike  in  temperament,  and  for  that  reason  perhaps 
the  better  suited.  Even  in  those  early,  groping  days  they  used 
to  discuss  artistic  problems  with  undisguised  zest  just  as  they 
afterward  did  while  strolling  along  the  quays  by  the  Seine  or 
sketching  among  the  Sabine  Hills.  It  was  in  1881  that  Lavery 
and  Roche,  having  rapidly  outgrown  the  restricted  facilities  of 
the  Haldane  Academy  of  Art,  decided  to  study  in  Paris.  They 
both  entered  Julian's,  Lavery  going  with  Boulanger  and  Roche 
with  Lef ebvre.  Among  their  fellow-pupils  was  Gari  Melchers, 
and,  in  common  with  the  youth  of  the  time,  they  soon  forsook 
the  romantic  idealism  of  the  Barbizon  masters,  passed  inevitably 
imder  the  spell  of  Bastien-Lepage,  and  dreamed  eloquent  dreams 
concerning  the  mission  of  naturalism.  It  was  superb,  even 
heroic,  while  it  lasted.  They  gallantly  loaned  each  other  five- 
franc  pieces  in  the  name  of  artistic  or  social  advancement,  and, 
in  due  season,  gravitated  toward  other  influences. 

Minute  fidelity  to  nature  and  the  mute,  homely  pathos  of 
peasant  life  did  not,  indeed,  long  hold  Lavery  in  submission. 
He  was  too  volatile,  too  sparkling,  to  shoulder  the  burden  of 
heavy-handed  toil  or  to  share  the  lot  of  the  labourer.  The  char- 
acteristic quality  about  him  even  as  a  beginner  was  his  positive 
genius  for  progression  along  just  those  lines  which  could  best 

[176] 


MARY    IN    GREEN 
By  John  Lavery 
[Possession  of  the  artist^ 


re  'ci/i\o\i  V'SJ    I  c'.'c  ,  .- 


JOHN    LAVERY 

contribute  to  his  advancement.  With  imerring  surety  he  seized 
upon  the  precise  things  he  needed  and  upon  nothing  else.  Dur- 
ing the  formative  period  in  Paris,  or  those  subsequent  trips 
through  Holland,  Germany,  Italy,  and  Spain,  it  was  impossible 
to  get  this  keen-eyed,  sagacious  youth  to  betray  the  remotest 
enthusiasm  for  the  robust  opulence  of  Rubens,  or  the  amorphous 
richness  of  Titian.  He  barely  glanced  at  the  Flemish  master's 
*  Descent  from  the  Cross  '  in  the  Antwerp  cathedral,  and  after- 
ward, in  Rome  and  Florence,  showed  scant  sympathy  for  the 
emphatic  solenmity  of  Michelangelo.  Both  in  subject  and  in 
treatment  his  leanings  were  wholly  toward  the  current  and  the 
contemporary.  He  detested  mythological  themes  and  abhorred 
the  smoky  hues  of  the  galleries.  Preferring  above  all  else  clarity 
of  tone,  he  would  stand  for  hours  gazing  at  the  crisp  whites  and 
blacks  of  Frans  Hals  in  Haarlem  or  Amsterdam,  or  the  pellucid 
sobriety  of  Velazquez.  Neither  the  historical  nor  the  legendary 
possessed  the  slightest  interest  for  the  young  painter  whose  art 
was  one  day  to  possess  so  much  that  is  natural  and  colloquial 
and  so  little  that  is  conventional  or  artificial.  Later,  when  he 
turned  to  history,  as  in  *  The  Night  after  the  Battle  of  Lang- 
syde,'  which  hangs  in  the  Modem  Gallery  of  Brussels,  it  was 
to  weave  into  the  incident  his  own  poetic  interpretation,  and 
the  sole  legend  he  has  ever  sought  to  portray  is  the  legend  of 
modem  femininity. 

The  struggling,  ambitious  days  at  the  Julian  Academy  and 
in  the  none  too  palatial  atmosphere  of  the  Hotel  de  Saxe  were 
followed  by  years  of  earnest  effort  and  experiment  in  the  sombre 
commercial  capital  of  the  North.  It  was  the  precise  period  when 
the  Scotch  painters  were  laying  the  foundation  of  their  future 
success.  Lavery,  Roche,  and  Guthrie  were  back  from  Paris, 
Walton  had  returned  from  Diisseldorf ,  and  each  man  was  cul- 
tivating his  powers  with  salutary  earnestness  and  enthusiasm. 
Although  he  painted  assiduously,  and  with  a  ready,  almost  dis- 

[177] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

concerting  facility,  La  very 's  first  really  important  production 
was  his  *  Tennis  Party  '  which  to-day  shares  a  place  beside 
Cameron  ^s  *  Bridge  *  in  the  Munich  Pinakothek.  Shown  at  the 
Royal  Academy  of  1887,  it  was  sent  to  the  Salon  of  the  succeed- 
ing season,  where  it  won  a  gold  medal,  later  finding  a  permanent 
guardian  in  the  Bavarian  Government.  It  is  significant  to  note 
that  Leighton,  on  passing  through  the  Salon,  paused  approv- 
ingly before  the  *  Tennis  Party '  and  remarked,  "  Now  that^s 
the  kind  of  picture  we  should  have  for  the  Academy,"  calmly 
oblivious  of  the  fact  that  the  noble  institution  of  which  he  was 
then  president,  had,  in  a  moment  of  unwonted  inspiration,  ex- 
hibited the  canvas  the  previous  year.  By  dint  of  exceptional 
talent  and  imflagging  personal  industry  the  Belfast  painter 
kept  himself  constantly  before  the  public.  Though  he  had  barely 
turned  thirty,  it  was  Lavery  who  was  commissioned  to  depict 
the  *  State  Visit  of  Her  Majesty  Queen  Victoria  to  the  Glasgow 
Exhibition  of  1888,'  and  again  it  was  Lavery  who,  together  with 
Roche,  Walton,  and  Henry,  was  chosen  to  decorate  the  Banquet- 
ing Hall  of  the  Glasgow  Municipal  Buildings.  Busy  as  he  was 
during  these  and  the  following  years,  he  still  found  time  to  take 
numerous  trips  to  France,  Spain,  and  Morocco  bringing  back 
with  him  extraordinarily  fresh  and  vital  studies  of  local  types 
and  scenes.  Though  he  painted  in  countries  notable  for  vivid 
splendour  of  tint,  Lavery  never  went  colour-mad  as  have  cer- 
tain of  his  colleagues.  A  native  subtlety  and  refinement  of  per- 
ception and  presentation  mark  each  of  these  canvases,  whether 
they  show  *  A  Garden  in  France,'  *  The  Bridge  at  Gres  '  with 
its  changing  lights  upon  the  water's  surface,  or  the  teeming 
*  Soko  '  outside  some  white-walled  African  town.  It  is  as  though 
the  artist  after  all  loved  best  the  quiet  hues  of  his  own  mist- 
wrapped  land  and  sought  to  find  them,  or  their  equivalent, 
everywhere.  At  any  rate  he  declined  to  give  us  shrill,  garish 
versions  of  Mediterranean  life  and  character,  bearing  in  mind 

[178] 


JOHN    LAVERY 

the  fundamental  fact  that  the  sun,  however  hot  and  bright, 
bleaches  all  things  just  as  it  has  Tanger  la  Blanca. 

While  his  love  for  colour  only  mildly  increased  as  time 
drifted  by,  the  distinction  of  Lavery's  style  became  decidedly 
more  manifest  when,  after  a  season  or  so  passed  in  Rome  and 
Berlin,  he  finally,  like  his  friend  Henry  and  other  of  the  Glas- 
gow painters,  settled  in  London.  For  one  who  had  seldom  ex- 
hibited in  the  English  capital  his  rise  was  rapid.  In  due  course 
he  took  the  studio  in  Cromwell  Place  built  for  the  late  Sir  Coutts 
Lindsay  and  afterward  occupied  by  Sir  James  D.  Linton,  which 
is  to-day  the  scene  of  his  multiple  activities.  Portraiture,  in 
which  he  had  always  shown  a  keen  interest,  proved  his  most 
effective  introduction.  Lady  Young  being  among  the  first  of 
that  now  extensive  series  of  slender,  elegant  flowers  of  the  Brit- 
ish aristocracy  whom  he  depicts  with  such  becoming  felicity. 
Without  influence  or  the  prestige  of  being  a  Royal  Academician, 
he  moved  quickly  forward  imtil,  by  the  sheer  dexterity  of  his 
brush,  he  had  conquered  a  firm  position  beside  such  established 
favourites  as  Sargent  and  Shannon.  It  was  realized  almost 
from  the  beginning  that  the  newcomer  had  something  to  say  and 
could  say  it  in  piquant,  unhackneyed  terms,  and  with  a  caressing 
tenderness  of  accent  notably  lacking  in  his  most  formidable 
rival.  His  attitude  toward  the  world  was  conciliatory  rather 
than  critical.  It  would  have  been  impossible  for  him,  being  bom 
in  Ireland,  to  have  been  imable  to  please,  if  not,  in  fact,  to  cap- 
tivate. Already  well  known  abroad  through  the  purchase  of 
several  of  his  pictures  for  the  principal  European  galleries,  he 
was  appropriately  chosen  vice-president  of  the  newly  organized 
International  Society  of  Sculptors,  Painters,  and  Gravers,  the 
president  being  Whistler,  who,  on  his  death,  was  succeeded  by 
Rodin.  It  has  usually  been  Lavery's  duty,  even  from  the  first, 
to  preside  at  most  of  the  meetings,  formal  or  otherwise,  and 
seldom  has  friend  and  fellow-craftsman  paid  more  fitting  trib- 

[179] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

ute  to  a  departed  comrade  than  that  which  was  contained 
in  the  brief  Whistler  memorial  address  delivered  by  the 
vice-president  at  the  annual  meeting  of  the  Society  on  15 
December  1903. 

The  special  appeal  of  La  very 's  art,  whether  you  select  the 
most  modest  and  fragmentary  outdoor  sketch  or  the  most  elabo- 
rate of  his  finished  portraits  lies  in  a  certain  inherent  unity  of 
effect.  The  whole  scene  is  there  clear  and  scintillant,  or  bathed 
in  fluid  black,  brown,  grey,  or  gold.  The  particular  person  in 
question  stands  before  you  with  magnetic  finality.  Over  the 
surface  of  each  canvas  the  eye  wanders  without  encountering 
a  single  distracting  note.  There  is  no  falsity  in  attitude,  no 
forcing  of  tone.  While  there  is  always  present  an  indwelling 
wealth  of  sentiment,  there  is  seldom  the  slightest  attempt  at 
securing  extraneous  advantages.  The  boy  who  progressed  with 
so  little  in  the  way  of  external  aid  was  succeeded  by  the  young 
artist  who  needed  only  a  group  of  people  playing  tennis  on  the 
greensward,  with  bits  of  sunlight  flecking  the  grass,  in  order  to 
paint  a  picture  which  won  the  approval  of  Europe.  The  aspir- 
ing photographer's  assistant  later  learned  to  pose  the  most 
beautiful  women  in  the  kingdom  against  a  plain,  neutral  wall- 
space  or  seat  them  naturally  side  by  side.  No  references  lit- 
erary or  poetical  were  needed  in  order  to  elucidate  art  such  as 
this.  It  was  its  own  commentary  and  furnished  its  own  reason 
for  being.  Though  in  his  search  after  the  spontaneous  and  the 
inevitable  he  was  leaving  behind  the  beloved,  painstaking  man- 
ner of  many  of  those  about  him,  Lavei^  never  faltered.  Tact 
and  intuition — ^the  knowledge  of  just  how  much  to  do  and  how 
much  to  leave  undone — always  guided  his  hand.  And  besides, 
somewhere  in  the  background  stood  a  certain  bygone  Spaniard 
who  seemed  to  say  that  all  was  well.  Consciously  or  uncon- 
sciously there  were  two  separate  elements  which  the  sensitive, 
eclectic  painter  was  striving  to  combine — ^the  gracious  charm 

[180] 


POLYMNIA 
By  John  Lavery 
{^Courtesy  of  the  artist] 


JOHN    LAVERY 

of  British  art  and  the  grave  restraint  of  Velazquez.  He  was 
seeking  to  correct  Anglo-Saxon  looseness  and  sentimentality 
with  something  of  that  dignified  severity  which  the  painter  of 
Philip  possessed  in  a  higher  degree  than  has  any  artist  the 
world  has  thus  far  known.  In  order  to  see  how  successful  he 
was  you  need  but  scan  almost  any  of  these  flowing,  instantane- 
ous likenesses,  not  forgetting,  of  course,  his  avowed  tribute  to 
the  older  master  in  the  challenging  full-length  of  R.  B.  Cun- 
ningham Graham,  Esquire,  in  top-coat  and  riding  boots.  Some- 
thing more  than  the  mere  man  is  here.  The  picture  represents 
both  personality  and  protest,  and  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  a 
subject  upon  whom  protest  rests  more  naturally  or  more  con- 
genially than  it  does  upon  this  selfsame  literary,  political,  and 
social  iconoclast. 

It  has  been  jauntily  assumed  that  La  very 's  portraits  owe 
much  to  the  portraits  of  Whistler,  that  they  even  too  implicitly 
suggest  the  magic  invocations  of  the  most  subtle  of  all  pictorial 
mesmerists.  The  name  of  Manet,  too,  is  occasionally  mentioned 
in  connection  with  that  of  Lavery.  It  is  well  to  preserve,  if  not 
to  create,  distinctions,  and  the  real  point  appears  to  be  that 
Lavery 's  territory  lies  midway  between  the  more  trenchant  real- 
ism of  Manet  and  the  elusive  spiritism  of  Whistler.  That  which 
Lavery  achieves  is  not  an  insistence  upon,  nor  yet  an  avoidance 
of,  actuality.  Nothing  is  demanded  and  nothing  given  save  a 
persuasive  sense  of  personality.  There  is  no  denying  that 
Whistler's  influence  on  the  Scottish  artists  was  considerable,  yet 
what  he  taught  them  was  not  how  to  paint,  but  how  to  see.  His 
precepts  were  the  better  placing  of  the  figure  upon  the  canvas, 
a  surer  feeling  for  decorative  pattern,  and  the  faculty  of  im- 
mersing each  subject  in  a  quiet,  luminous,  aerial  envelope. 
While  there  is  something  of  Whistler  in  much  contemporary 
portraiture,  the  free,  ample  handling  of  Lavery  has  little  in 
common  with  the  glazed  finish  of  the  painter  who  has  given 

[181] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

us  *  The  Yellow  Buskin  '  and  *  Miss  Alexander.'  Moreover, 
La  very  is  neither  abstract  nor  mystical.  It  is  neither  the  mind 
nor  the  soul  to  which  he  preferably  devotes  himself.  The  spe- 
cial atmosphere  which  surrounds  his  sitters  is  as  much  of  their 
own  as  of  his  making.  He  does  not  endow  them  with  a  tremu- 
lous, inquisitive  supplication.  They  do  not  muse  or  dream,  they 
vibrate  with  life  and  motion.  If  he  can  be  said  to  bestow  aught 
upon  these  gracious  women,  thoughtful  men,  or  fresh-faced 
children,  it  is  simply  a  dash  of  that  contagious  attraction  which 
is  his  in  such  rich  measure  and  which  he  cannot  help  radiating. 
The  merest  glance  at  *  The  Violin  Player,'  *  Mother  and 
Son,'  or  ^  PoljTnnia  '  is  sufficient  to  prove  that  La  very,  despite 
his  popularity,  is  no  formal,  conventional  painter  of  pretty 
faces.  The  early  canvases  in  particular  reveal  a  liberal  com- 
prehension of  his  calling.  They  are  both  portraits  and  pictures. 
Certain  of  them  suggest  the  sort  of  thing  the  early  Manet  was 
fond  of  doing,  and  others  again  recall  the  interiors  of  Alfred 
Stevens.  They  linger  submissively  on  the  dividing-line  between 
the  exact  and  the  imdefined.  The  figure  seated  alone  in  the  dim 
music  room  with  her  violin  bow  resting  idly  across  her  lap 
awakens  inmunerable  dormant  fancies,  while  the  slender  blonde, 
gowned  in  black,  idly  dropping  rose-petals  on  the  polished 
piano  cover  breathes  an  aroma  at  once  luxurious  and  discreetly 
seductive.  And  even  when  the  painter  attempts  more  concise 
delineation,  as  in  *  Lady  Hamilton,'  in  the  ivory-white  and  shell- 
pink  half-length  of  *  Mrs.  Wetzlar,'  or  the  artless,  unaffected 
aristocracy  of  *  The  Sisters,'  there  is  usually  an  air  of  impro- 
visation about  the  ultimate  result.  Yet  above  all,  these  por- 
traits are  interpretative.  In  the  precise  turn  of  head,  in  veil 
lightly  brushed  aside,  or  the  soft  gleam  of  ring,  brooch,  or  brace- 
let, you  have  not  only  individuality  but  the  secret  of  that  femi- 
nine charm  which  has  so  disturbed  the  serenity  of  the  ages. 
Although  each  detail  comes  easily  and  imsought,  no  trick  of 

[182] 


JOHN    LAVERY 

identity  is  missed.  These  women  do  not  all  sit,  stand,  or  dress 
alike.  They  have  that  variety  which  is  the  variety  of  nature, 
and  which  is  not  the  least  welcome  of  the  gifts  nature  has  be- 
stowed upon  her  daughters. 

It  is  consoling  to  know  that  La  very  does  not  exclusively  de- 
vote his  powers  to  a  portrayal  of  the  conscious  products  of 
female  artifice.  If  anything,  he  appears  to  prefer  those  more 
ingenuous,  less  sophisticated  types  which  flourish  not  alone  in 
the  British  Isles  but  in  the  presumably  buoyant  and  expectant 
heart  of  man  the  world  over.  Happily  most  of  the  artists  from 
across  the  Border  still  remain  faithful  to  former  scenes  and 
associations.  Just  as  Roche  has  given  us  a  series  of  ^  Bettys  ' 
and  *  Nancys, '  so  La  very  has  painted  a  nimiber  of  *  Noras  '  and 
*  Marys,'  together  with  a  pair  of  becomingly  pictorial  embodi- 
ments of  vernal  loveliness,  the  one  entitled  *  Springtime,'  the 
other  *  The  Girl  in  White.'  Confident  yet  unstudied  in  pose  and 
invigoratingly  clear  in  tint,  these  semi-portraits  are  by  no 
means  maidenly  innocence  reduced  to  a  formula.  While  they 
reflect,  it  is  true,  traces  of  romantic  simplicity,  they  are  the  fit- 
ting personification  of  qualities  which  are  distinctively  national, 
and  hence  inevitable.  Especially  in  such  canvases  as  *  Mary  in 
Green  '  and  ^  An  Irish  Girl '  do  you  feel  that  La  very  is  on 
ground  of  his  own  choosing.  They  both  breathe  a  freshness 
which  is  flowerlike  and  instinct  with  the  truest  outdoor  beauty. 
It  is  a  province  which  is  peculiarly  the  painter's  own,  nor  can 
all  the  mundane  elegance  of  London  or  Paris  extinguish  in  him 
that  race  kinship  which  is  stronger  than  any  acquired  conven- 
tion and  which  cannot  fail  to  betray  itself  alike  in  completed 
portrait  or  the  slightest,  most  inadvertent  brush-stroke.  For  a 
considerable  period  the  art  of  La  very  was  somewhat  sombre  in 
its  tonality.  Colour  was  there,  but  it  was  subdued  colour.  It  is 
possible  that  Velazquez  and  Whistler  had  blown  upon  his  palette 
the  tints  of  dimly  lit  palace  chamber  or  the  suppressed  hues  of 

[183] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

the  night.  Gradually,  however,  his  schemes  strengthened  and 
took  on  greater  chromatic  variety.  The  blacks  of  the  Spaniard, 
the  browns  of  the  American,  and  the  chalky  greys  of  the  pul- 
monary Bastien  finally  disappeared.  Perhaps  this  darker  world 
was  dispelled  by  the  infectious  smile  of  some  West  Coast  *  Mary  ' 
or  the  sparkling  eyes  and  crisp  white  frocks  of  an  even  younger 
apparition  who  sat  cosily  in  a  big  arm-chair,  or  stood,  reverent 
and  expectant,  dressed  for  *  Her  First  Communion.'  At  all 
events  the  painter  now  delights  in  sharper  contrasts  and  the 
often  piquant  use  of  primary  colour  notes.  He  is  especially 
fond  of  a  bright  blouse  or  parasol  spotted  against  a  stretch  of 
green  or  a  blue  strip  of  sky  or  sea,  and  such  effects  he  handles 
with  consummate  dash  and  distinction. 

It  is  consistent  with  his  temperament  and  training  that 
Lavery  should  be  a  rapid,  dexterous  workman,  happy  in  his 
results  and  swift  in  their  attainment.  In  the  early  Glasgow 
days  he  is  said  actually  to  have  executed  within  the  space  of  four 
months  some  fifty  finished  oils  showing  various  aspects  of  the 
International  Exposition,  and  few  of  his  fellow-artists  have  ever 
known  him  to  hesitate  no  matter  what  technical  difficulty  might 
present  itself.  He  is  an  inspirational,  rather  than  a  systematic 
or  logical  craftsman,  and  though  failures  are  not  infrequent, 
there  is  an  unassuming  air  about  his  successes  which  redoubles 
their  charm.  While  his  feeling  for  structure  is  by  no  means 
always  exact,  much  may  be  forgiven  one  in  whose  work  the  pulse 
of  life  so  seldom  fails  to  beat  or  whose  art  never  pretends  to  be 
more  than  it  is.  The  light  by  which  Lavery  paints  in  the  big 
studio  in  Cromwell  Place  is  an  east  light,  coming  from  the  side, 
not  the  customary  north,  or  top  light.  He  uses  a  large  palette 
and  draws  freely  in  colour  directly  on  the  canvas.  He  is 
medium-sized  with  a  mobile,  somewhat  Celtic  cast  of  counte- 
nance, and  is  as  full  of  wit  and  genial  spirits  as  the  sons  of  Erin 
are  rightfully  supposed  to  be.   While  the  records  do  not  so  state, 

[184] 


THE    SISTERS 
By  John  Lavery 
[Courtesy  of  the  artisf] 


JOHN    LAVERY 

it  is  more  than  likely  that  he  originally  came  from  the  Moira 
district,  where  abound  the  "  Baun-Laverys,"  the  **  Roe- 
Laverys,"  the  *'  Trin-Laverys/'  and  the  '^  Hard-La verys."  In 
any  case,  throughout  those  precarious  student  struggles  in  Glas- 
gow and  Paris  he  was  the  soul  of  courage  and  animation,  and 
now  that  success  has  come  in  such  gratifying  measure  he  con- 
tinues as  generous  and  open-hearted  as  ever.  Though  he  has 
long  been  a  member  of  the  Royal  Scottish  Academy,  of  which 
his  friend  and  associate.  Sir  James  Guthrie,  is  president,  it  is 
probable  that  the  powers  that  be  would  not  have  been  averse 
to  enrolling  him  in  that  other  Royal  Academy  which  holds  its 
annual  displays  in  London.  Thus  far,  however,  he  has  remained 
benevolently  oblivious  of  the  Burlington  House  oligarchy,  pre- 
ferring as  a  rule  to  exhibit  under  the  auspices  of  the  Interna- 
tional Society,  the  Society  of  Portrait  Painters,  or  abroad. 

In  contrast  to  the  work  of  many  of  his  countrymen,  notably 
those  of  Saxon  persuasion,  there  is  nothing  either  narrative  or 
didactic  in  the  art  of  John  Lavery,  a  fact  that  largely  accounts 
for  the  high  esteem  in  which  he  is  held  on  the  Continent.  He 
is  thoroughly  modern  in  his  leanings,  believing  that  the  mission 
of  the  artist  is  to  deal  with  things  around  him  and  treat  them 
strictly  in  terms  of  his  medium.  He  is  instinctive  and  non-the- 
oretical in  his  attitude  toward  all  forms  of  art,  and  when  asked 
about  his  own  efforts  usually  smiles  with  playful  deprecation 
and  says,  *^  My  pictures  are  the  only  opinions  I  profess."  Not 
long  since,  when  questioned  as  to  which  he  considered  his  best 
painting,  he  replied,  with  characteristic  spirit,  "  My  latest." 
That  there  should  be  any  difficulty  in  realizing  why  it  is  hard 
for  Lavery  to  discuss  his  work  is  imlikely.  This  art,  which  is 
at  the  same  time  so  fugitive  and  so  contained,  so  full  of  nervous 
daintiness  and  yet  so  rigorously  restricted  to  the  matter  in  hand, 
is  not  an  art  of  ideas,  but  rather  an  art  of  impressions.  These 
flexible,  patrician  creatures  are  in  no  degree  the  symbols  of 

[185] 


MODEEN    ARTISTS 

doubt  or  of  self -analysis.  No  attempt  has  been  made  to  distort 
their  bodies,  or  to  dissect  their  souls.  The  visible  appearance 
of  things,  not  their  moral  or  philosophical  purport,  is  La  very 's 
preoccupation.  He  is  a  painter  of  effects,  not,  primarily,  of 
facts.  Out  of  a  given  number  of  possibilities  he  selects  a  few 
gracious  contours  and  discreet,  harmonious,  or  cleverly  daring 
colours,  and  these  he  recombines  with  directness  and  propriety. 
His  message,  if  he  may  be  said  to  possess  one,  is  frank  and 
specific  not  profound  or  imaginative.  It  is  purely  as  a  painter 
that  he  claims  attention,  and  as  a  painter  his  position  is  incon- 
testable. While  he  shows  intuition,  rather  than  insight,  few 
who  occupy  themselves  with  external  aspects  betray  his  ready 
sensibility  to  impressions  of  every  description.  That  he  is  also 
gifted  with  the  requisite  emotional  depth  and  sincerity  for  the 
higher  forms  of  artistic  expression  is  amply  proved  by  the  can- 
vas known  as  *  Father  and  Daughter,'  an  endearing  version  of 
the  painter  and  his  little  Eileen  which  thus  far  marks  the 
epitome  of  his  supple,  assured  mastery  of  the  essentials  of  por- 
traiture. Nevertheless,  despite  its  technical  charm  and  its  sense 
of  urbanity,  despite  the  fact  that  this  art  occasionally  approaches 
the  sphere  of  such  delicately  versatile  feminists  as  Blanche,  de 
La  Gandara,  or  Helleu,  it  is,  at  bottom,  an  art  which  is  simple, 
subjective,  and  lyrical.  Though  the  least  obviously  Scotch  of 
all  the  Glasgow  men,  Lavery,  after  his  own  fashion,  is  equally 
typical.  His  Continental  training  and  the  detachment  which 
is  supposed  to  result  therefrom  have  not  robbed  him  of  that 
touch  of  knight-errantry  which  must  have  been  his  by  right  of 
birth.  Explicit  and  contemporary  as  they  often  are,  there  seems 
gently  to  cling  about  these  likenesses  a  hint  of  bygone  chivalry. 
It  is  manifestly  impossible  for  Lavery  to  depict,  or  even  to  see, 
ugliness.  Beauty  is  more  to  him  than  character,  and  in  his  eyes 
there  is  little  difference  between  beggar  lass  and  duchess.  Leav- 
ing to  others  the  field  of  history  and  of  myth,  he  has,  in  his 

[186] 


JOHN    LAVERY 

own  particular  domain,  proved  himself  not  less  idealistic  and 
not  less  national.  He  has  merely  rendered  more  intimate  and 
personal  that  same  poetic  vision  shared  so  generously  by  his 
brothers  of  the  brush. 

The  attitude  of  Lavery  toward  the  Royal  Academy  is  quite 
in  accord  with  the  stand  taken  by  most  of  the  Scottish  chief- 
tains. Although  fame  has  been  won  and  their  position  in  the 
world  of  art  is  secure,  they  have  never  wholly  forgotten  the  stiff 
uphill  fight  which  was  once  their  lot.  A  certain  number  have 
established  themselves  in  Edinburgh  or  in  London,  yet  even 
they  do  not  widely  diverge  either  in  spirit  or  in  fact  from  their 
original  starting-point.  While  the  Glasgow  belligerents  were 
unique  in  Great  Britain,  they  were  not  an  isolated  phenomenon, 
but  participants  in  a  great  movement  which  came  to  simultane- 
ous focus  in  numerous  European  capitals.  The  organization  of 
the  New  Salon  in  Paris,  the  founding  of  the  Libre  Esthetique 
in  Brussels,  the  various  Secessionist  societies  which  quickly 
sprang  up  throughout  Germany  and  Austria,  and  even  the 
milder  demonstration  which  resulted  in  the  birth  of  the  New 
English  Art  Club  in  London  all  belong  to  the  same  stirring 
epoch.  Yet  in  no  quarter  have  the  principles  of  modem  aesthetic 
advancement  taken  firmer  root  than  in  the  smoky  city  on  the 
Clyde.  In  the  decorative  and  industrial  arts  as  well  as  in  archi- 
tecture and  painting  Glasgow  is  to-day  more  positive  and  pro- 
gressive than  ever.  A  distinctly  healthy  initiative  characterizes 
all  this  work.  While  closely  allied  to  the  current  elastic,  ser- 
pentine evolution  of  various  artistic  forms,  its  achievements  are 
personal,  original,  and  not  without  commendable  sobriety  and 
stateliness.  A  new  association  known  as  the  Glasgow  Society 
of  Artists  has  recently  been  inaugurated,  and  the  entire  move- 
ment is  daily  gaining  strength,  continuity,  and  general,  as  well 
as  local  importance.  For  many  reasons  it  is  impossible  to  escape 
the  conviction  that  there  still  remains  much  that  is  free  and 

[187] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

unfettered  about  these  men  of  the  North.  They  have  been  hailed 
as  ultra  modem,  they  are  supposed  to  have  learned  not  a  little 
from  the  Frenchmen  and  the  Japanese,  yet  one  and  all  they  are 
eager,  daring  romanticists.  Arthur  Melville — King  Arthur,  as 
the  boys  used  to  call  him — ^had  a  viking's  passion  for  the  South, 
and  the  sonorous  canvases  of  Hornel  suggest  the  richness  of  an 
ancient  missal.  Countless  intimations  seem  to  prove  that  the 
old  spirit  is  not  dead,  that  voices  long  silent  speak  again.  Nor 
is  there,  after  all,  such  a  vast  difference  between  these  latter- 
day  poets  in  line  and  tone  and  the  scribes  and  bards  of  for- 
mer times.  For  they,  too,  like  those  who  have  gone  before, 
look  upon  the  present  with  wondering  eyes,  their  hearts  deep- 
anchored  in  the  past. 


[188] 


GIOVANNI  SEGANTINI 


GIOVANNI    SEGANTINI 

Portrait  of  the  artist  painted  by  himself 
[^Courtesy  of  Signor  Gruhicy,  Milan\ 


GIOVANNI  SEGANTINI 


ONE  stormy  suimner  night  as  two  Milanese  peasants  were 
hurrying  homeward  through  the  darkness  and  drench- 
ing rain,  their  lantern  chanced  to  flash  upon  the  form 
of  a  boy  crouched  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  by  the  roadside.  They 
questioned  the  waif,  and  finding  that  he  had  run  away  from 
home  and  was  trudging  to  France,  they  bundled  him  into  a  ham- 
per in  the  bottom  of  the  cart  and  jogged  on  toward  the  shelter 
of  their  farm.  The  boy  meanwhile  fell  asleep,  and  when  he 
awoke  found  himself  in  a  snug  cot,  being  cared  for  by  a  stout, 
kind  woman  who  gave  him  dry  clothes  and  a  bowl  of  steaming 
soup  made  of  rice  and  beans.  Sitting  by  the  fire  were  the  two 
men  who  had  found  him  along  the  roadway,  and  when  the  wight's 
shining  black  eyes  were  fully  open,  they  asked  him  more  ques- 
tions. He  told  them  of  lonely  days  in  a  miserable  attic  room 
whence  he  could  only  see  a  patch  of  sky  and  the  peaked  roofs 
of  the  great  city.  He  told  them  how  his  father  had  gone  away 
and  had  never  come  back,  and  how  every  morning  when  his  step- 
sister went  to  work  she  locked  him  in  to  spend  the  long  hours 
alone  until  her  return  at  nightfall.  From  his  window  perch  he 
once  heard  the  women  below  tell  of  a  boy  who  had  gone  all  the 
way  to  France  afoot  and  f oimd  wealth  and  fame,  and  that  morn- 
ing he  slipped  out  and  started  off  toward  France  to  seek  his 
fortune.  Standing  in  the  bright  Piazza  Castillo  his  father  had 
often  shown  him  the  straight,  white  road  down  which  the  French 
and  Piedmontese  troops  poured  into  Milan,  and  that  was  of 

[191] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

course  the  way  over  the  mountains  and  into  France.  The  boy 
had  only  a  crust  of  bread  to  munch  along  the  highroad,  but  the 
air  was  brisk  and  he  tramped  stoutly  on,  passing  villages  and 
now  and  then  quenching  his  thirst  at  fountains  or  wayside 
streams.  The  faint  blue  haze  toward  the  Alps  beckoned  to  him, 
and  within  throbbed  the  hope  of  somehow  achieving  great  deeds 
once  France  were  reached.  But  as  the  day  wore  along  and  the 
sun  beat  cruelly  on  the  parched  Lombard  plain,  the  little  head 
began  to  ache,  the  legs  to  grow  stiff  and  weary,  and  the  feet  sore. 
At  iast  he  sank  down  in  the  shade  of  a  near-by  tree  and  fell 
asleep,  only  to  awake  in  fright  at  the  crash  of  the  oncoming 
storm.  So  touched  were  the  simple  farm  folk  by  the  boy's  story 
that  they  had  not  the  heart  to  take  him  back  to  Milan,  particu- 
larly as  he  vowed  he  would  run  away  again  if  they  did.  The 
following  day  the  women  clipped  his  dark,  clustering  locks,  dis- 
closing a  face  which  one  of  them  exclaimed  was  **  like  the  son 
of  a  King  of  France."  And,  it  being  agreed  that  he  must  tiu-n 
his  hand  to  something,  they  sent  him  off  to  tend  swine  on  the 
hillside. 

This  little  swineherd,  who  afterward  became  known  to  the 
world  as  Giovanni  Segantini,  was  born  15  January  1858,  at 
Arco,  near  the  Lago  di  Garda,  in  the  Austrian  Tyrol.  Like  most 
inhabitants  of  the  Trentino  he  was  Italian  in  race,  character, 
and  language.  His  rugged  peasant  father  was  a  carpenter  by 
trade,  and  not  an  overthrifty  one,  for  his  delicate  yoimg  wife 
was  forced  to  help  matters  along  by  selling  fruit  and  vegetables. 
Giovanni's  early  years  were  passed  in  a  hut  beside  the  swift- 
flowing  Scara.  He  was  a  frail,  pallid  child,  with  great,  vivid 
eyes  which  eagerly  caught  the  play  of  light  on  brook  and  meadow 
or  the  changing  splendour  of  giant  dolomite  peaks  that  towered 
toward  the  sky.  Of  those  first  few  years  at  Arco  he  remembered 
only  the  sunlit  garden,  his  being  rescued  from  drowning  by  a 
long-limbed  mountaineer,  and  the  sad,  languid  beauty  of  a 

[192] 


GIOVANNI    SEGANTINI 

mother  who  had  been  an  invalid  from  the  boy's  birth.  **  I  can 
see  her  now,"  he  afterward  said,  **  with  my  mind's  eye ;  she  was 
beautiful,  not  like  the  sunrise  or  midday,  but  like  the  sunset  in 
spring."  When  he  was  but  five  years  of  age  this  tender,  suffer- 
ing being  faded  from  sight,  and  within  a  few  weeks  his  father 
returned  to  Milan,  where  he  had  left  a  son  and  daughter  by  a 
former  marriage. 

And  thus  began  those  bitter,  sombre  days  which  were  to 
weave  their  loneHness,  their  vague  terror,  and  their  wistful  him- 
ger  for  light  and  love  into  the  web  of  Giovanni's  soul.  All  he 
heard  as  he  played  about  the  bare  room  or  tried  to  keep  himSelf 
warm  by  a  miserable  charcoal  stove  were  the  voices  of  countless 
bells  clanging  about.  All  he  could  see  was  the  leaden  sky  of  a 
Milanese  winter.  To  be  neglected  by  his  stepsister  and  flogged 
by  the  house  porter  for  his  innocent  pranks  was  hardly  the  care 
Giovanni  craved.  Small  wonder  that  when  spring  came  he 
sighed  for  the  little  garden  at  Arco,  the  patches  of  green  fields, 
the  brooks,  the  sky,  the  blue  waters  of  the  Lago  di  Garda.  Small 
wonder  that  before  a  second  summer  dragged  past  he  had  slipped 
away  from  the  wretched  tenement  in  the  Via  San  Simone,  im- 
pelled by  the  aching  hope  that  life  must  somewhere  be  brighter 
and  kinder  than  it  had  yet  been.  During  the  years  he  passed  as 
shepherd  with  the  goodly  Lombard  contadini  the  boy  grew 
strong  of  frame  and  limb.  He  learned  to  love  the  flocks  he 
tended  and  to  note  their  form,  their  colour,  their  ways  while 
grazing,  while  at  the  drinking  trough,  or  in  the  stall.  Before 
long  he  began  to  trace  rough  sketches  of  them  on  flat  stones  or 
waUs,  with  bits  of  charcoal.  The  plain  folk  about  him  were 
both  puzzled  and  charmed  by  these  lifeHke  efforts.  Yet  the 
real  impulse  toward  expression,  the  first  definite  yearning  with  • 
its  faint  promise  of  fulfilment,  did  not  come  imtil  one  day  when 
he  chanced  to  hear  a  poor  peasant  mother  sighing  over  her  dead 
child, — **Ah,  if  I  only  had  a  picture  of  her,  she  was  so  beauti- 

[193] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

full  ^'  There  is  no  hint  now  of  what  this  portrait  was  like;  it 
is  enough  to  know  that  the  boy's  genius  found  its  earliest  un- 
folding through  love,  and  sympathy,  and  pity.  And  to  the  very 
last  he  was  touched  by  the  sight  of  suffering  in  man  or  beast.- 
It  is  the  call  to  which  he  always  responded  with  deepest,  tender- 
est  insight. 

The  desire  to  make  something  of  himself,  coupled  with  a 
longing  to  see  his  stepsister,  at  length  drew  the  runaway  back  to 
Milan,  slender  in  pocket  but  rich  in  the  wishes  of  those  who  bade 
him  godspeed.  After  a  time  he  managed  to  enter  the  evening 
School  of  Ornament  at  the  Brera  and  began  his  career  copying 
paintings  and  drawing  from  bas-reliefs  by  Donatello.  Yet  here 
in  Milan  life  proved  the  same  cruel  struggle  it  had  been  in  for- 
mer years.  The  boy  worked  at  whatever  he  could  find  to  do  by 
day,  and  at  night  attended  his  classes.  He  was  too  poor  to  buy 
himself  a  box  of  colours,  so  poor,  indeed,  that  he  was  arrested 
by  the  police  and  committed  to  the  Patronato  for  abandoned 
'children.  While  there  they  taught  him  the  trade  of  a  cobbler, 
but  also  allowed  him  to  continue  his  studies.  When  he  left  the 
Patronato,  which  still  possesses  certain  of  his  early  efforts,  he 
would  often  wander  aimlessly  about  the  streets,  or  from  his  gar- 
ret window  watch  the  sun  sink  below  the  dark  rim  of  roofs  and 
towers.  Music  aroused  in  him  a  sort  of  fiery  ecstasy,  and  his 
whole  being  was  tortured  by  the  caressing,  insistent  accents  of 
love.  Above  all  he  felt  surging  within  the  need  for  some  clearer, 
ampler  form  of  expression.  Later,  while  taking  a  course  of  ele- 
mentary figure  drawing  at  the  Accademia  and  also  working  for 
■  Teltamangi,  a  local  painter  of  church  banners,  he  executed  his 
first  picture.  The  colours  had  been  given  him  by  a  friendly 
grocer  for  whom  he  had  painted  a  sign,  the  canvas  was  a  sugar 
bag  dipped  in  oil  and  stretched  on  a  rough  frame,  but  there  was 
something  fresh  and  individual  about  this  youth's  rendering 
♦of  the  *  Choir  of  the  Church  of  Sant'  Antonio.'    There  was  a 

[194] 


AVE    MARIA    A    TRASBORDO 
By  Giovanni  Segantini 
[Private  possession,  Colognel 


GIOVANNI    SEGANTINI 

new  vibrancy  to  the  light  which  streamed  in  the  high  window 
on  the  left  and  bathed  the  carved  stalls,  the  dark  wainscoting, 
and  the  white-surpliced  choir  boy  standing  before  the  lectern. 
Though  knowing  nothing  of  divisionism,  he  had  instinctively- 
placed  touches  of  pure  pigment  side  by  side  upon  the  canvas 
without  first  mixing  them  on  the  palette,  thus  allowing  the  sep- 
arate tones  to  recompose  on  the  retina.  He  had  no  scientific 
theories  on  the  subject;  he  merely  found  that  by  so  doing  he 
could  secure  better  effects.  It  was  before  the  practice  of  Monet 
and  the  French  impressionists  had  become  known  in  Italy,  and  • 
the  boy  had  come  independently  by  a  discovery  second  only  in 
painting  to  the  employment  of  perspective. 

The  picture  aroused  interest,  was  exhibited  at  the  Brera  in 
-1879,  and  obtained  a  silver  medal.  More  than  this,  it  enlisted 
the  notice  of  Signor  Vittore  Grubicy,  who  continued  Segantini's 
cherished  and  helpful  friend  throughout  his  career.  Yet  the 
young  artist  did  not  at  the  time  develop  further  his  conquest  of 
suffused,  palpitating  light.  He  proceeded  to  paint  in  the  usual 
manner,  but  with  crude  vigour,  studies  in  still-life  and  in  genre. 
Among  the  former  the  most  notable  is  ^  The  Dead  Hero,'  vaguely 
recalling  Mantegna's  *  Dead  Christ, '  which  he  must  have  seen  on 
the  dark  walls  of  the  Brera.  He  next  took  a  studio  in  the  Via 
San  Marco,  but  was  already  disgusted  with  the  art  of  the  day 
and  with  its  preceptors,  and  raged  hotly  at  both.  His  contempt 
for  his  teachers  was  such  that  once,  on  being  asked  what  he  would 
do  if  he  were  as  great  an  artist  as  his  master,  he  promptly  re- 
plied, **  Hang  myself!  "  As  he  acquired  grasp  and  decision  he 
felt  that  his  lot  lay  among  different  scenes.  Moreover,  the  love 
of  the  open  was  strong  upon  him ;  he  longed  to  be  back  among 
his  shepherds  and  herdsmen.  In  1882,  having  married  the  sister 
of  his  fellow-artist.  Carlo  Bugatti,  he  forsook  the  fog-ridden 
city  of  Leonardo,  where  he  had  known  only  tribulation  and  pain, 
and  settled  at  Pusiano,  in  the  fertile  Brianza,  not  far  from  Como. 

[195] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

Here  in  the  fragrant  Garden  of  Lombardy,  dotted  by  cream- 
wliite  villas,  terraces,  and  redolent  parterres,  rich  in  grain  and 
wine,  Segantini  perfected  the  first  phase  of  his  development. 
He  remained  in  the  Brianza  four  years  in  all,  and  each  year  dis- 
played a  deeper,  more  penetrating  sympathy  with  the  quiet, 
bucolic  life  about  him  and  a  broader,  surer  translation  of  its 
spirit.  If  the  scenes  he  now  painted  were  for  the  most  part  sad, 
it  was  because  the  heart  of  the  man  had  so  long  been  open  to 
sorrow  and  suffering.  The  vision  of  that  which  lay  without  was 
transfigured  by  the  pathos  from  within.  His  chosen  themes  were 
the  weariness  of  the  peasant  after  a  day's  toil,  the  monotony  of 
his  life,  his  trials,  and  his  cares.  More  than  all  he  loved  to 
picture  the  bond  between  man  and  beast  and  the  common  feeling 
of  maternity  in  both.  Despite  the  fertility  of  the  Brianza  the 
labourer's  lot  is  a  hard  one,  and  its  least  accent  finds  reflection  in 
these  hiunble  episodes  painted  with  the  lingering  tenderness  of 
one  who  had  himself  been  a  shepherd  of  the  flock. 

In  ^  The  Last  Task  of  the  Day  '  heads  are  bowed  and  backs 
burdened  as  two  heavy  figures  carry  home  their  load  of  faggots 
at  dusk.  *  Sad  Hours  '  is  a  subtler  but  not  less  affecting  version 
of  that  utter  fatigue  which  overcomes  the  peasant  when  the  day's 
toil  is  done  and  purple  shadows  creep  softly  forth  to  enfold  all 
things.  The  pious  resignation  of  the  girl's  attitude,  the  lowing 
cow  in  the  foreground,  the  sheep  crowding  to  the  shelter,  and 
the  fringe  of  Brianza  hills  bathed  in  opal  glow  all  witness  the 
delicate,  pervading  pathos  of  Segantini 's  art.  In  *  One  More  ' 
maternity  is  touched  upon  in  appealing  terms  with  a  young  shep- 
herdess carrying  in  her  arms  a  lamb  which  has  been  bom  as  the 
sheep  wind  homeward  under  a  threatening  sky.  Throughout  all 
the  paintings  of  this  period,  whether  they  depict  *  Potato 
Harvest '  or  *  Sheep-Shearing,'  or  transcribe  the  many  sorrows 
and  scant  joys  of  rural  life  in  the  Brianza,  runs  the  same 
•idyllic  melancholy.    The  note  is  never  forced,  but  it  is  never 

[196] 


GIOVANNI    SEGANTINI 

absent,  even  when  love  is  touched  upon  as  in  *  A  Kiss  at  the 
Fountain.'  The  two  canvases  which  first  brought  Segantini's 
name  before  the  public  were  *  Ave  Maria  a  Trasbordo/  painted- 
at  Pusiano  when  the  artist  was  but  five-and-twenty,  and  *  At  the 
Tether/  finished  shortly  before  he  left  the  Brianza.  The  one 
shows  what  for  some  time  was  to  embody  his  deepest  reflection 
of  hmnan  sentiment,  the  other  was  his  earliest  and  purest  ren- 
dering of  reality.  When  sent  to  an  exhibition  at  Milan  *  Ave 
Maria  a  Trasbordo  '  was  rejected,  but  the  following  year,  at  the 
Amsterdam  Exhibition  of  1883,  it  was  awarded  the  gold  medal. 
The  masterly  drawing  and  composition  of  this  picture  together 
with  its  wealth  of  limpid  colouring  assured  success  quite  apart 
from  the  actual  beauty  of  the  scene — a  flat  lake-boat  laden  with 
sheep,  a  far-off  bell  tolling  the  evening  hymn,  the  shepherd  rest- 
ing on  his  oars,  and  the  peasant  madonna  bending  over  the  child 
at  her  breast  and  softly  murmuring  *'Ave  Maria,  gratia  plena.'' 
In  *  At  the  Tether,'  which  was  painted  at  Caglio,  in  the  Valas-, 
sina,  and  which  shows  a  herd  of  cattle  at  the  milking  ground 
with  a  low  range  of  hills  beyond,  Segantini  displays  the  breadth, 
reserve,  and  close  study  of  locality  which  were  to  distinguish  his 
later  work.  He  here  begins  to  subordinate  the  human  element, 
to  find  that  nature  alone  suffices,  or  nearly  so.  The  canvas  was 
exhibited  at  Amsterdam  in  1887,  and  at  Bologna,  and  was  after- 
ward purchased  by  the  Italian  Government  for  the  National  Gal- 
lery of  Modem  Art  at  Rome. 

All  through  the  Brianza  sojourn  Segantini  had  been  growing 
nearer  and  nearer  to  reality,  had  been  catching  with  more  firm- 
ness and  surety  the  shifting  nuances  of  form  and  of  colour. 
From  his  windows  he  watched  the  lingering  sunset  radiance,  or 
among  the  pastures  studied  those  swift  changes  of  atmospheric 
effect  which  characterize  the  country  around  Como  and  Lecco. 
He  moved  about  at  will,  from  Pusiano  to  Castagnola,  from  there 
to  Carella,  and  thence  to  Caglio.   His  life  was  simple  and  happy ; 

[197] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

lie  saw  no  one  save  his  own  family,  and  spent  his  days  recording 
with  new  clarity  and  fullness  of  vision  the  nobility  of  labour, 
the  beauty  of  sorrow,  and  the  eternal  kinship  of  all  creatures  of 
the  field.  He  painted  only  that  which  he  loved,  and  each  brush- 
stroke seems  a  heart-throb.  Certain  analytical  spirits  have  in- 
sisted upon  calling  this  the  artist's  Millet  period,  but  it  requires 
more  than  a  similarity  of  subject  to  justify  the  comparison.  He 
never  saw  a  painting  by  Millet,  and  only  knew  the  Barbizon 
master's  majestic  or  brutish  peasant  heroics  through  a  set  of 
engravings  given  him  by  Signer  Grubicy.  Mauve  he  knew  in  the 
same  way,  but  resembles  him  merely  in  that  both  painted  sheep. 
Nor  was  there  in  the  art  of  the  modem  Lombards  any  message 
for  him.  Cremona  he  admired,  and  Ferragutti  was  perhaps 
nearest  in  feeling,  but  Segantini  lay  beyond  their  sphere  of  in- 
fluence. Like  Previati  he  was  bent  upon  working  out  his  own 
artistic  salvation,  in  finding  his  own  emotional  language.  He 
was  essentially  self-taught,  and  came  into  maturity  through  a 
passionate  inner  necessity  which  finally  broke  forth  in  full  power 
and  effulgence.    He  recalls  no  man  and  owed  little  to  any. 

Finding  that  he  was  familiar  with  the  pastoral  scenes  of  the 
Brianza,  Segantini  next  looked  higher  and  wandered  farther. 
The  Alps  with  their  clear  atmosphere  and  sharp  outlines  seemed 
to  lure  him  from  the  soft  masses  of  vapour  floating  over  lake 
and  pasture,  from  the  four  caressing  winds  of  Como.  He  wanted 
most  of  all  to  seize  the  secrets  of  that  light  which  had  ever  daz- 
zled and  beckoned  him,  and  which  for  him  was  the  source  and 
soul  of  all  beauty.  Leaving  their  children  behind  for  the  time 
being,  the  painter  and  his  wife  set  out  on  foot  and  wandered  for 
weeks  in  search  of  some  spot  where  they  might  be  with  nature 
in  her  sublimest  aspects.  In  the  high,  cloud-capped  village  of 
Livigno,  northeast  of  the  Bernina  Pass,  they  thought  to  have 
found  a  haven,  but  because  they  failed  to  attend  Mass  the  day 
after  their  arrival,  the  bigoted  natives  drove  them  from  the 

[198] 


Q 
O 


o 
o 


CS  ^! 

.2     ^ 


pq 


GIOVANS"!    SEGANTINI 

place.  They  then  went  over  the  Bernina  to  Silvaplana,  and  from 
Silvaplana  along  the  Juller  Pass  to  Savognino,  on  the  road  to 
Coire.  Here  among  the  Grisons,  where  winter  frowns  forever 
and  summer  is  but  a  fleeting  supplication,  Segantioi  remained 
for  the  next  eight  years.  The  Switzerland  which  he  found  in 
the  Engadine,  and  put  upon  canvas  at  all  hours  and  during  all 
seasons,  was  not  the  Switzerland  of  Chillon  and  TelPs  Chapel. 
It  was  not  the  Switzerland  of  mammoth  hotels,  operatic  peas- 
ants, cuckoo  clocks,  and  toy  cattle.  It  was  something  unknown 
to  the  pedantic  Calame  or  the  characteristic  Topffer.  Segan- 
tini  stood  apart  from  all  that  had  gone  before.  He  had  eyes  to 
see  that  which  lay  deep  within  the  faltering  heart  of  man  and 
strength  to  look  with  confidence  toward  God^s  dim  eternity. 
And  what  he  sought  to  picture  was  the  one  in  its  relation  to  the 
other — the  spectacle  of  life  flickering  faintly  in  the  midst  of 
impassivity  and  death. 

Existence  in  the  Higher  Alps  has  always  been  and  must  al- 
ways remain  a  matter  of  sufferance.  Nature  is  here  at  her 
grandest  and  her  cruellest,  and  man's  struggle  for  life  and  live- 
lihood is  remorselessly  intensified.  The  dull  crash  of  an  ava- 
lanche or  the  roar  of  a  devastating  torrent  quickly  change  the 
song  on  his  lips  to  a  prayer — a  prayer  often  answered  by  an- 
nihilation. It  is  a  bitter,  unequal  contest  for  man  or  beast,  and 
they  inevitably  turn  to  one  another,  linked  together  in  mute 
solicitude,  shrinking  from  nature  which  seems  the  enemy  of  both. 
Such  is  the  country  into  which  Segantini  had  climbed,  and  such 
are  the  scenes  which  he  found  at  hand — ^man  poor  in  all  save 
hope,  nature  rich  in  beauty  but  chary  of  her  blessings.  He  en- 
tered this  new  and  luminous  kingdom  timidly,  painting  at  first 
a  few  bits  in  the  Brianza  manner  of  broad,  flat  tones,  but  soon 
modified  his  method  according  to  prevailing  conditions.  He 
found  that  the  problem  of  suggesting  flower-dotted  foregrounds 
and  the  clear,  sharp  contours  of  distant  ranges  boldly  outlined 

[199] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

in  this  translucent  atmosphere  demanded  a  new  solution.  Re- 
verting to  the  path  opened  with  his  boyish  *  Choir  of  the  Church 
of  Sant'  Antonio/  he  gradually  evolved  a  procediu*e  which  com- 
bined the  brilliant,  shimmering  effects  of  impressionism  with  a 
consistency  of  outline  which  always  made  his  drawing  notable 
for  strength  and  continuity.  The  secret  of  his  triumph  over 
baffling  conditions  lay  in  that,  wherever  necessary,  he  broke  or 
conserved  colour  and  line.  The  basis  of  his  technique  was  not, 
as  with  the  French  pointillists,  a  series  of  dots,  but  a  succession 
of  short,  multi-coloured  ridges  running  parallel  with  each  other. 
That  which  helped  him  equally  was  an  infallible  sense  of  selec- 
tion. He  never  painted  the  impaintable.  Unlike  timid  gentle- 
men such  as  Baud-Bovy  and  Robinet  who  had  long  pictured  the 
Alps  from  the  safety  of  valleys  below,  Segantini  met  them 
openly,  face  to  face.  He  painted  them  from  their  own  level, 
where,  instead  of  appearing  as  isolated  peaks,  they  broke  about 
him  like  billows,  with  now  and  then  a  wrinkled  brow  rising  above 
the  crest. 

Studies  in  sentiment  or  landscape  on  a  restricted  scale,  such 
as  *  On  the  Balcony,'  ^  Knitting,'  *  Rest  in  the  Shade,'  or  *  A 
Cow  Drinking,'  were  but  the  prelude  to  a  series  of  grand  Alpine 
panoramas  which  remain  Segantini 's  chief  contribution  to  art. 
Whatever  be  the  claims  of  his  earlier  work,  it  is  certain  that 
with  *  Ploughing  in  the  Engadine,'  ^  Spring  in  the  Alps,'  *  Al- 
pine Pastures,'  and  *  Spring  Pastures  '  he  attained  his  fullest 
vision  of  definite,  external  beauty  expressed  in  its  simplest,  most 
enduring  terms.  This  mountain  Hesiod  seems  in  truth  the  story 
which  had  been  given  him  to  tell  mankind.  The  first  of  these 
canvases,  *  Ploughing  in  the  Engadine,'  already  proves  how  ac- 
curate was  the  artist's  rendering  of  all  forms  of  life  there  among 
the  stony  uplands  where  nature  is  so  strong  and  man  so  weak. 
Though  details  of  soil  and  vegetation,  of  peak  and  scarp,  are 
exactly  studied,  it  is  the  spirit  of  the  scene  which  holds  the  final 

[200] 


GIOVANNI    SEGANTINI 

appeal.  Modern  art  shows  nothing  similar  to  the  plastic  dignity 
of  this  pair  of  horses  straining  at  the  plough,  the  labourers  guid- 
ing their  submissive  efforts,  the  rim  of  cottages  in  the  distance, 
and  the  frame  of  glistening,  blue-white  ranges.  The  austerity 
and  restraint  of  such  compositions  are  poetized  and  humanized 
in  the  succeeding  canvases  of  the  series,  each  of  which  records 
the  delicate,  transient  grace  of  the  Alpine  spring.  They  show 
azure  skies,  carpets  of  gentians,  daisies,  and  alpenrosen,  a  few 
figures  or  a  grazing  herd  in  the  foreground,  and  always,  beyond, 
snow-capped  moimtains  seamed  by  silent,  yellow-rolling  glacier 
streams.  Each  blossom,  each  pebble  reflects  the  scintillating 
glory  of  a  sun  which  bathes  and  brightens  all  things,  which  gives 
light  in  abundance,  but,  alas,  scant  heat.  So  thrilled  was  the 
painter  by  this  iridescent  beauty  that  he  would  often,  in  his 
mountain  walks,  sink  upon  his  knees  in  ecstasy,  or  bend  and  kiss 
the  flowers  in  his  path. 

Yet  this  radiance  is  short-lived,  and  for  seven  or  eight  months 
of  each  year  in  the  Upper  Engadine  man  and  beast  are  huddled 
together  in  weather-tight  shelters.  This  dark  and  tedious  in- 
door existence  Segantini  has  pictured  with  homely  fidelity  in 
*  The  Spinning  Wheel,'  '  The  Sheepfold,'  and  '  Mothers.'  In 
fact  no  phase  of  mountain  life  escaped  him  or  failed  to  arouse 
his  interest  and  abiding  pity.  He  lived  out-of-doors  all  the  while, . 
painting  direct  from  nature  and  rarely  making  preliminary 
studies.  He  passed  his  days  not  shut  up  in  the  studio  with  a 
north  light,  but  on  the  heights  of  the  Grisons,  working  now  at 
one  subject,  now  at  another,  as  nature  suggested  the  desired 
effect.  When  fogs  floated  up  from  the  Val  Bregaglia  and  settled 
about  him,  shrouding  nature  as  with  the  mantle  of  God,  or  when 
the  afterglow  had  faded  into  night  he  would  lock  his  unfinished 
canvases  in  stout  iron  cases  and  tramp  downward,  guided  by 
the  sound  of  tinkling  bells  or  the  far  glow  from  cottage  fireside. 
Few  of  his  pictures  ever  saw  the  inside  of  that  little  chalet  whose 

[201] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

windows  opened  to  the  skies  of  Switzerland,  Italy,  and  Austria, 
and  whose  rooms  were  bare  of  all  artistic  pretence.  They  were 
carried  down  mountain  paths  on  the  backs  of  sturdy  herdsmen 
and  placed  in  carts  to  wend  their  way  to  Chiavenna  and  thence 
by  rail  to  Milan,  Turin,  or  Venice.  By  1894,  or  about  the  time 
he  moved  still  higher  and  settled  at  Maloja,  six  thousand  feet 
above  sea-level,  Segantini's  work  was  becoming  better  known  to 
the  outside  world.  Vienna,  Mimich,  Berlin,  and  even  Paris 
gazed  with  curious  eyes  upon  those  unfamiliar  scenes  executed 
with  a  direct  brilliancy  of  method  which  recalled  the  early 
mosaics.  Yet  the  personality  of  the  artist  continued  a  mystery. 
At  Maloja  and  at  Soglio  he  was  even  further  removed  from  con- 
tact with  the  public,  and  never  left  his  mountain  home  save  for 
an  occasional  trip  to  Milan,  where  his  daughter  Bianca  was  at- 
tending school.  Few  beyond  his  wife,  children,  and  chance 
friends  ever  caught  a  glimpse  of  this  dark,  stalwart  man  with 
torrents  of  hair  and  the  beard  of  an  Assyrian  king.  He  naively 
wore  a  grotesque  outing  suit,  and  never  posed  in  cafes  or  paraded 
about  at  picture  exhibitions.  His  only  public  honours  were  the 
scattered  medals  awarded  his  paintings  in  distant  cities,  and  a 
complimentary  luncheon  given  him,  during  the  last  year  of  his 
life,  by  a  few  admirers  in  the  little  town  hall  of  Pontresina, 
when  he  made  a  speech  full  of  gratitude  and  frank  idealism. 
For  the  rest,  he  lived  alone  with  nature,  his  art,  and  his  Maker.  • 
At  first  his  work  had  been  subjective,  but  later,  under  the 
influence  of  prolonged  solitude  and  random  reading,  its  form  be- 
came more  and  more  symbolistic.  Though  possessing  rich  nat- 
ural gifts  he  was  singularly  illiterate,  and  until  the  age  of  seven- 
teen could  neither  read  nor  write.  In  after  years  he  became 
something  of  a  bibliophile,  was  fond  of  discussing  phases  of  re- 
ligion, aesthetics,  and  socialism,  and  even  wrote  for  the  news- 
papers and  reviews.  Yet  it  was  an  inheritance  into  which  he 
had  come  too  late.    He  never  acquired  maturity  of  mind;  his 

[  202  ] 


.'c     '.    c  ,^c    i'/'c'''.'r[    [         I    /\  c 

/•'ce   t»    lo"  t  W       c   c  tec  »'  c  "^c' 


K 
O 


O 


GIOVANNI    SEGANTINI 

ideas  were  blurred  and  full  of  juvenile  unreason.  As  he  painted 
alone  on  the  heights,  often  clad  in  furs  and  with  the  colours 
actually  freezing  on  the  canvas,  he  wrestled  in  his  untaught  way 
with  questions  of  duty  and  destiny,  of  reward  and  punishment. 
Fantastic  counterparts  of  these  concepts  rose  from  the  white 
wastes  or  slipped  from  dark  crevices  and  filled  his  vision  with 
beings  half  human,  half  mythical.  Against  an  unrelenting 
background  of  mystery  and  fate  he  beheld  piteous  incarnations 
of  tenderness  and  of  terror.  Though  he  continued  to  paint  with 
rigid  verity  the  same  Alpine  landscapes,  they  were  peopled  by 
vague,  flying  forms  whose  pathos  or  forlorn  anguish  add  a  fresh 
note  to  art.  These  fleeting  creatures  with  streaming  hair  and 
rose-tipped  breasts  uncovered  to  the  bitterest  winds  had  come 
not  from  the  cypress  groves  of  Italy,  the  caverns  of  the  Rhine, 
or  the  gardens  of  Kelmscott  Manor.  They  were  bom  of  a  soul 
whose  torments  as  well  as  whose  crystal  serenity  found  expres- 
sion in  terms  of  the  most  poignant  and  individual  beauty. 
Tentative  bits  of  idealization  such  as  *A  Rose  Leaf,'  the  some- 
what robust '  Child  of  Love,'  and  the  delicately  Milanese  *  Angel 
of  Life,'  were  succeeded  by  canvases  whose  technical  perfection 
and  imaginative  force  place  Segantini  among  master  symbolists. 
Despite  its  richly  flowered  frame  and  wealth  of  vernal  sunshine, 

*  Love  at  the  Fountain  of  Life  '  verges  on  incongruity,  but  in 

*  The  Punishment  of  Luxury,'  ^  Captive  Mothers,'  and  *  The 
Source  of  Evil, '  the  image  finds  its  inevitable  form.  Each  repre- 
sents a  moral  idea,  but  each  holds  a  haunting  beauty  and  fervour 
quite  apart  from  specific  morality.  Whether  they  embody 
Hindu  myth,  or  Dantesque  legend,  or  spring  direct  from  the 
artist's  brain,  they  all  reflect  nature  in  the  Orisons.  The  fanci- 
ful is  given  a  setting  uncompromising  in  its  fidelity  to  fact. 

In  *  The  Punishment  of  Luxury, '  which  pictures  the  penalty 
of  sterility,  the  souls  of  sinning  women,  as  sorrowful,  wingless 
creatures,  are  wafted  pitilessly  about  above  an  infinitude  of  ice 

[203] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

and  snow,  gleaming  blue  and  white,  silver  and  gold,  in  the  sink- 
ing Sim.  Another  vast,  snow-covered  expanse,  dotted  with 
twisted  trees,  shows  the  *  Unnatural  Mothers  '  condenmed  to  ex- 
piate their  crime  in  a  bleak,  wind-swept  eternity  of  repentance 
and  suffering.  *  The  Source  of  Evil,'  which  has  vanity  for  its 
text,  reveals  Segantini's  sense  of  the  nude  and  the  singular 
grace  with  which,  when  so  moved,  he  eould  limn  the  female 
figure.  Yet  the  trials  and  sorrows  of  the  real  world  did  not  fade 
before  the  tortured  magic  of  these  evocations.  During  the 
period  when  he  gave  fantasy  its  freest  sweep  Segantini  never 
lost  touch  with  the  outward,  the  objective.  In  *  The  Sower  ' 
and  *  Haymaking,'  he  came  as  close  to  nature  as  before,  and  in 
a  series  of  religious  paintings,  which  number  the  prophetic  *  Sor- 
row Comforted  by  Faith  '  and  *  The  Home-Coming,'  he  touched 
the  deepest  emotions  of  the  simple  mountain  folk  whom  he  knew 
so  well  and  whose  lot  he  had  so  freely  shared.  Though  he  gazed 
into  the  unreal  he  could  look  upon  reality  with  the  same  tender 
solicitude.  Portraiture  also  occupied  his  attention  at  brief 
intervals,  the  best  of  his  attempts  in  this  direction  being  the 
seated  three-quarter-length  of  Signor  Vittore  Grubicy,  and 
the  two  or  three  mystical  versions  of  his  own  shaggy  head 
and  searching  eyes,  each  of  which  recalls  the  mask  of  the 
Forerunner. 

From  childhood  Segantini  had  dreamed  of  France,  and  early 
in  1898  he  formed  a  project  for  exhibiting  at  the  Paris  Exposi- 
tion a  large  circular  panorama  which  would  embrace  all  aspects 
of  life  and  nature  in  the  Engadine.  Considerable  money  was 
raised  among  the  artist's  devoted  following,  but  the  plan  was 
finally  abandoned  as  being  unfeasible.  He  then  decided  to  paint 
two  large  triptychs,  one  of  which  he  practically  finished;  the 
other  never  passing  beyond  the  stage  of  rough  sketches.  In 
order  to  paint  his  first  triptych  direct  from  nature  he  chose  a 
spot  on  the  Schafberg  above  St.  Moritz,  whence  he  might  sweep 

[204] 


GIOVANNI    SEGANTINI 

with  a  glance  the  entire  Upper  Engadine,  the  soaring  peaks  of 
the  Roseg,  the  Morteratsch,  and  the  Bernina,  or  watch,  shining 
beneath  like  eyes  of  the  sea,  the  blue  lakes  of  Statz,  Campfer, 
Silvaplana  and  Sils.  He  worked  month  after  month  with  fervid 
exaltation,  bringing  nearer  and  nearer  completion  the  panels 
entitled  *  Life,'  *  Nature,'  and  *  Death,'  which  were  to  epitomize 
his  beloved  Engadine  in  her  fresh  beauty,  her  brief  maturity, 
and  her  snow-shrouded  bereavement.  The  colouring  was  more 
luminous  than  ever,  the  study  of  natural  forms  more  accurate, 
and  the  human  element  more  consistent  and  appropriate.  With 
delicate  fancy  he  added  an  ornamental  frieze  showing  chamois 
perched  upon  peaks,  and  medallions  wherein  decorative  nude 
figures  typify  *  Alpenrose  '  and  *  Edelweiss,'  flowers  which  had 
each  season  brought  him  such  frank  joy.  Unfinished  though  it 
stands,  the  triptych  proved  his  masterwork,  his  supreme  and 
final  offering. 

In  September  1899,  the  panels  having  meanwhile  been 
brought  down  to  the  chalet,  he  determined  to  add  a  few  touches 
on  the  heights  where  they  had  originally  been  painted.  Though 
it  had  already  begun  to  snow  he  would  not  be  deterred  by  adverse 
weather.  He  must  note  again  the  play  of  light  and  shifting 
cloud,  must  read  closer  and  closer  nature's  changing  heart.  On 
the  eighteenth  the  little  band  started  up  from  Pontresina  and 
climbed  the  Schafberg,  sturdy  mountaineers  bearing  proudly 
and  without  a  murmur  their  heavy  burden.  They  would  have 
done  anything  for  this  gentle,  silent  man,  who  was  as  intent  as 
one  of  the  watching  Magi.  The  painter  set  to  work  with  pa- 
thetic ardour,  lodgiag  in  a  deserted  shepherd's  hut,  where  his 
only  comforts  were  a  rude  bed,  a  chair,  and  a  portable  stove. 
Round  him  lay  glistening  in  the  sun  or  sleeping  silently  under 
the  shadow  of  God's  hand  the  rock-  and  ice-riven  splendour 
which  he  strove  to  perpetuate.  He  seemed  happy,  but  was  at 
times  haunted  by  the  image  of  death.    The  first  night  while 

[205] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

wandering  on  the  mountain,  he  saw  a  falling  star  and  remarked, 
**  That  means  evil  fortmie." 

Within  a  day  or  so  he  was  taken  ill,  having  been  forced  to 
drink  melted  snow,  which  induced  a  chill.  Fever  set  in  and  a 
shepherd  was  sent  below  for  medical  aid.  His  friend.  Dr.  Bern- 
hard,  arrived  from  Samaden  during  the  night  with  hands  cut 
and  bleeding  from  climbing  the  rocks  to  reach  the  stricken  man. 
Later  the  painter's  family  came,  bringing  everything  needful 
and  simamoning  two  German  physicians  who  still  lingered  in  the 
valley.  They  found  him  weak  but  hopeful,  for  a  fortune-teller 
had  once  assured  him  that  he  would  live  to  be  the  age  of  Titian. 
Symptoms  of  peritonitis  were  noted  and  a  tardy  operation  was 
performed,  but  without  avail.  On  the  evening  of  the  twenty- 
eighth  he  begged  to  be  moved  to  the  window  that  he  might  see 
the  fire-tinted  heights  glowing  about  him.  During  the  night  his 
spirit  hovered  awhile  on  the  borderland  between  the  brightness 
which  he  had  known  and  the  vague  beyond  into  which  he  had 
tried  to  peer.  Yet  no  hand,  however  gentle  or  imploring,  could 
stay  the  pallid  Visitor  once  she  had  been  summoned.  He  had 
given  his  life  that  the  world  might  know  what  lay  within  the  cold 
virginity  of  those  eternal  snows.  He  had  striven,  vainly  it  must 
be,  to  penetrate  the  impenetrable.  As  they  bore  him  slowly 
down  the  slopes  and  laid  him  to  rest  in  the  little  cemetery  of 
Maloja,  which  he  had  painted  with  such  fidelity  in  *  Sorrow 
Comforted  by  Faith,'  every  bell  in  the  Engadine  tolled  sadly. 
There  was  not  a  pious  soul  throughout  the  valley  who  did  not 
weep  or  exchange  a  heartfelt  word  with  his  neighbour.  They  all 
knew  and  all  loved  him  who  had  come  amongst  them,  and  who 
had  seemed  even  as  one  of  themselves. 

The  path  which  he  trod  so  firmly  yet  for  so  short  a  time  is 
to-day  being  followed  by  a  small  but  enthusiastic  band  of  artists. 
His  favourite  pupil,  Giovanni  Giacometti,  is  continuing  the 
spirit  of  his  work,  and  upon  his  sons,  Gottardo  and  Mario  Segan- 

[206] 


GIOVANNI    SEGANTINI 

tini,  lias  in  a  measure  faUen  their  father's  mantle.  Across  the 
German,  Austrian,  and  Italian  frontiers  he  has  found  numerous 
imitators.  Throughout  the  Grisons,  and  indeed  the  world,  art 
has  been  enriched  by  this  simple,  heroic  nature  whose  life  has 
been  fittingly  honoured  by  a  monument  from  the  hands  of  Leon- 
ardo Bistolfi,  himself  as  great  a  mystic  naturalist  as  the  man 
he  has  memorialized.  From  first  to  last  the  two  guiding  im- 
pulses of  Segantini's  being  were  the  lyrical  impulse  and  the 
devotional  impulse.  His  whole  existence  had  been  spent  in 
chanting  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  world,  and  his  eyes  had 
never  failed  to  look  with  tender  compassion  upon  those  who 
dweU  therein.  To  the  end  he  remained  a  fervent,  imaginative 
child,  loving  light,  loving  colour,  and  craving  that  which  was 
past  or  that  which  was  yet  to  come.  He  was  always  harking 
back  to  the  unfulfilled,  or  only  half -fulfilled,  visions  and  prom- 
ises of  an  eager,  wistful  heart.  Almost  his  final  wishes  were 
that  he  might  see  once  again  the  little  simlit  garden  at  Arco 
and  foUow  the  white  road  stretching  away  toward  France. 


[207] 


GARI  MELCHERS 


GARI    MELCHERS 

Portrait  of  the  artist  by  J.  J.  Shannon 

[^Courtesy  of  Mr.  Shannon] 


GAEI  MELCHERS 


NESTLED  among  the  dunes  of  North  Holland  is  a  prim- 
itive and  picturesque  little  studio.  The  spot  is  lonely 
and  isolated.  On  one  side  chafes  a  menacing  sea ;  on 
the  other  are  the  quiet  waters  of  a  broad  canal.  Roimd  about 
wave  masses  of  tall  reed-grass ;  here  and  there  is  a  stunted  oak 
or  pine,  while  above  drift  continually  restless,  moist-laden 
clouds.  Over  the  doorway  of  this  small,  low-browed  structure 
is  written  in  crude,  resolute  characters  the  motto  "  Wahr  und 
Klar."  It  is  many  years  since  this  device  was  traced,  yet  those 
who  have  followed  the  rise  of  Gari  Melchers  still  note  the  fact 
that  the  distinctive  features  of  his  art  remain  truth  and  clarity. 
Never,  throughout  a  varied  and  productive  career,  has  he  for- 
gotten either  of  those  simple  words  which  have  themselves  so 
well  withstood  the  change  of  season  and  the  touch  of  time.  It 
was  not  from  mere  chance  or  momentary  caprice  that  such  a 
text  came  to  be  inscribed  above  the  portals  of  this  dune-top 
studio  which  overlooks  by  turns  the  tiled  roofs  of  Egmond  and 
the  yellow  sands  of  the  North  Sea.  **  Wahr  und  Klar  "  is  not 
the  motto  of  a  single  individual.  It  is  the  battle-cry  of  the  most 
vigorous  and  salutary  manifestation  in  the  history  of  nineteenth- 
century  art.  The  turbulent,  intolerant  champion  of  verity,  the 
man  who,  more  than  anyone,  demolished  convention  and  estab- 
lished the  supremacy  of  free,  imf ettered  observation — Gustave 
Courbet,  of  course — ^was  not  a  colourist  in  the  present  accepta- 
tion of  the  term.    He  still  painted  nature  in  the  sooty  hues  of 

[211] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

the  galleries.  He  still  believed  that  shadows  were  black.  Al- 
though his  influence  was  prodigious,  and  though  for  a  time  he 
swept  everything  before  him  both  in  Paris  and  on  that  memor- 
able visit  to  Munich  on  the  eve  of  the  Franco-Prussian  war,  yet 
he  had  f  oimd  but  half  the  truth.  He  knew  the  Wahr  but  not  the 
Klar  of  modem  painting.  It  remained  for  more  sensitive,  more 
complex  talents  to  apply  to  the  entire  range  of  natural  phe- 
nomena that  power  of  analysis  which  Courbet  brought  to  bear 
upon  the  merely  objective. 

That  trembling,  translucent  simlight  which  has  so  long 
bathed  and  brightened  the  world  has  been  known  to  art  but  a 
few  brief  years.  It  is  only  since  the  days  of  Manet  that  painters 
have  studied  its  changing  glimmer  or  stippled  upon  canvas  its 
scintillant  glory.  For  centuries  landscape  and  figure  as  well 
had  been  smothered  in  brovni  sauce  and  blackened  by  layers  of 
bitmnen.  With  but  few  exceptions  all  painters  until  Manet's 
time  looked  at  nature  through  the  mahogany  tints  of  the  mas- 
ters. Correggio  saw  the  tender  evanescence  of  light,  and  Velaz- 
quez felt  the  magic  of  its  respiration,  but  they  stand  almost 
alone  amid  a  sombre  assemblage.  Save  for  such  scattered  in- 
stances ancient  art  is  art  in  a  vacuum.  Though  Manet  in  his 
early  days  was  himself  of  this  number,  the  battle  had  been  won 
by  the  time  he  so  pathetically  left  the  field.  Close  in  the  wake 
of  Manet  came  the  stolid,  patient  Monet,  and  along  with  him 
Renoir,  Pissarro,  Sisley,  and  numerous  lesser  luminarists  who 
quickly  flooded  studio  and  gallery  with  a  radiance  ever  near  at 
hand,  yet  until  then  so  strangely  neglected.  When  Pissarro  and 
Monet  returned  from  London  obscure  and  unregarded,  the  cause 
had  few  sponsors.  The  slender  and  often  dubious  little  band 
used  to  meet  nightly  at  the  cafe  de  la  Nouvelle  Athenee  in  order 
to  discuss  various  theories  of  colour.  Though  Baudelaire  and 
Zola  manfully  aided  them,  and  other  recruits  stepped  forward, 
they  were  for  the  most  part  compelled  to  bear  alone  the  com- 

[212] 


GARI    MELCHERS 

bined  derision  of  press  and  public.  What  was  even  more  rueful 
they  were  scarcely  able  to  subsist  on  the  proceeds  of  their  sales, 
canvases  by  Sisley,  Renoir,  and  Pissarro  bringing  with  difficulty 
twenty  francs  apiece.  By  dint  of  persistence  and  good  fortune 
the  cause,  however,  triumphed  inside  a  score  or  so  of  years,  and 
the  men  who  were  at  first  cruelly  ridiculed  became  in  due  course 
the  most  cherished  of  modem  masters.  Yet  the  conquest  of 
light  was  not  confined  to  the  palpitating  out-of-doors,  to  purple 
haystack  or  azure  strip  of  water;  it  was  also  carried  within. 
Degas  found  that  it  filtered  through  the  windows  of  the  foyer 
or  flared  into  the  faces  of  his  corps-de-ballet.  Besnard  caught 
its  flicker  from  lamp  or  fireplace.  Thus  the  normal  glare  of  day 
was  not  enough  for  experimentalists  intoxicated  by  this  new  dis- 
covery. They  annexed  artificial  light  as  well,  each  painter  re- 
vealing  after  his  own  fashion  the  fluid  ambience  of  an  all-per- 
vading ether. 

While  as  though  through  sympathetic  magic,  spots  of  light 
sprang  up  in  different  parts  of  the  world,  such  as  with  Segan-  ^^ 
tini  in  the  clear  uplands  of  the  Italian  Alps,  with  Emile  Claus 
in  Belgimn,  or  with  SoroUa  along  the  glistening  seastrand  of 
Valencia,  Paris  continued  the  chief  centre  of  radiation.  To  cer- 
taiQ  American  paiaters  who  at  the  time  were  living  and  studying 
in  France  belongs  the  honour  of  having  been  among  the  first 
foreigners  to  grasp  the  significance  of  a  departure  which  has 
revolutionized  almost  every  phase  of  tonal  expression.  Miss 
Cassatt,  Childe  Hassam,  Edmund  C.  Tarbell,  F.  W.  Benson,  and  •-" 
George  Hitchcock  were  each  pioneer  exponents  of  vibrant, 
broken  colour.  Though  none  save  Hassam  went  so  far  as  Monet, 
or  remained  so  faithful  to  the  exactions  of  extreme  impression- 
ism, they  were  all  part  of  the  same  movement.  Allied  to  them 
through  ties  of  birth,  association,  and  general  artistic  aims  is 
Gari  Melchers.  At  first  sight  this  flexible  though  positive  per- 
sonality seems  to  present  serious  difficulties  in  the  wav  of  pre- 

[213] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

cise  classification.  It  is  at  once  apparent  that  lie  is  neither  a 
Franco- American  imitator  nor  an  implicit  disciple  of  that  heroic 
little  group  whose  starting-point  was  a  shabby  cafe  in  the 
BatignoUes  and  who  have  at  last  forced  the  portals  of  the 
Louvre.  That  which  differentiates  Gari  Melchers  alike  from 
the  country  of  his  birth  and  from  France,  the  amiable  step- 
mother of  artistic  America,  is  his  complicated  ancestry.  Ger- 
manic, with  Dutch,  French,  and  American  affiliations,  he  reverts 
perhaps  unconsciously  to  the  predominant  strain  in  his  nature. 
It  was  from  Germany  that  he  originally  came,  and  it  was  from 
a  German  art  atmosphere  whence  he  journeyed,  like  his  com- 
patriots once-removed — Max  Liebermann  and  Fritz  von  Uhde 
— to  Paris,  where  he  absorbed,  as  they  before  him  had  done,  the 
gospel  of  light.  It  is  impossible  to  explain,  except  on  such 
grounds,  the  sane,  straightforward  naturalism  of  Melchers 's 
manner  brightened  as  it  is  by  the  aurate  brilliancy  of  the 
latter-day  palette.  Any  attempt  to  localize  him  as  an  American, 
a  Frenchman,  or  a  Hollander  must  necessarily  prove  inadequate. 
He  has  resided  by  turns  in  each  country,  and  from  each  has 
taken  something,  yet  the  basis  of  his  aesthetic  being  is  Teutonic. 
Because  he  had  long  painted  Dutch  subjects,  Americans  naively 
considered  him  a  Dutchman,  but  the  Germans,  with  surer  artistic 
perceptions,  knew  better.  It  is  in  Germany  that  he  is  most 
esteemed,  and  it  is  beside  such  masters  as  Liebermann,  von 
Uhde,  Leibl,  von  Bartels,  and  their  successors  that  he  takes 
rank.    In  the  last  analysis  he  stands  as  a  modified  Teuton.    - 

In  point  of  unvarying  placidity  and  uniform  success  few 
careers  can  compare  with  that  of  Gari  Melchers.  From  the  be- 
ginning there  were  no  harsh  parental  objections,  nor  in  after 
days  were  there  any  periods  of  romantic  anguish  or  pathetic 
probation.  The  stimulus  of  poverty  and  the  sting  of  zealous 
emulation  were  equally  unnecessary  to  his  development.  That 
which  particularly  characterizes  his  progress  has  always  been 

[214] 


THE    MAN    WITH    THE    CLOAK 

By  Gari  Melchers 

[National  Gallery  of  Modern  Art,  Rome] 


GARI    MELCHERS 

an  instinctive  consciousness  of  what  lie  wished  to  do  and  the 
way  it  could  best  be  accomplished.  Born  in  Detroit,  11  August 
1860,  he  seems  to  have  evinced  no  ambition  apart  from  an  early 
and  resolutely  expressed  desire  to  become  a  painter.  His  father, 
who  had  been  a  sculptor,  a  pupil  of  Carpeaux  and  Etex,  cordially 
sjTnpathized  with  his  son's  artistic  longings.  When,  at  the  age 
of  seventeen,  the  boy  went  abroad  to  study,  the  only  stipulation 
made  was  that  the  youthful  aspirant  should  not  go  to  Paris. 
The  somnolent  seclusion  of  Diisseldorf  was  deemed  less  per- 
nicious and  disturbing,  so  the  first  three  years  of  his  apprentice- 
ship were  passed  under  the  guidance  of  von  Gebhardt  and  other 
approved  apostles  of  precedent.  Among  his  fellow-pupils  were 
Kampf,  Vogel,  and  Hans  Herrmann,  and  while  manifestly  a 
promising  student,  the  yoimg  man  gave  no  indication  of  unusual 
ability. 

Matters  were  different,  however,  when,  thoroughly  grounded 
in  the  elements  of  draughtsmanship  and  painting,  Gari  Melchers, 
at  twenty,  decided  to  complete  his  training  in  Paris.  Taking 
no  special  pains  to  acquaint  the  family  of  his  movements,  he 
quietly  entered  the  Julian  Academy.  Wholly  unawares  the  ad- 
mirable janitor  of  French  art  had  opened  his  doors  to  a  remark- 
able newcomer,  who,  in  response  to  the  tonic  atmosphere  of  the 
capital,  soon  made  his  presence  felt.  His  studies  were  regarded 
as  exceptional,  and  both  under  Boulanger  and  Lefebvre,  and 
later  at  the  Beaux- Arts,  his  advance  can  best  be  measured  by 
the  rapidity  with  which  he  outdistanced  his  classmates,  Roche- 
grosse  alone  holding  his  own  beside  the  yoimg  Diisseldorfer. 
They  were  picturesque  and  diverting  days,  those  early  'eighties 
when  Gari  Melchers  frequented  the  Paris  ateliers  and  attended 
the  famous  Cours  Yvon.  The  American  girl  had  not  as  yet 
broken  down  the  barriers  of  the  Quarter  and  complacently 
seated  herself  beside  the  youth  of  her  own  and  other  lands.  That 
spontaneous  gaiety  which  has  since  fluttered  away  before  her 

[215] 


L^ 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

rumpled  skirt  and  spotted  apron  was  still  at  its  height.  If 
Melchers  and  his  contemporaries  dwell  with  special  fragrance 
upon  this  period  it  is  possibly  because  they  have  more  to  recall 
than  recent  students — or  is  it  the  enchantment  of  a  more  ex- 
tended perspective  ? 

Meantime  there  were  of  course  numerous  innocuous  esca- 
pades, notably  a  trip  with  two  atelier  companions  to  Italy  via 
Marseilles,  when  spirits  ran  so  high  and  funds  so  low  that  the 
trio  were  obliged  to  resort  to  the  most  grotesque  expedients  in 
order  to  complete  their  journey.  But  for  the  most  part  the 
young  artist  from  overseas  felt  drawn  toward  more  serious  mat- 
ters. Deeply  impressed  by  the  quiet  asceticism  of  monastic  life 
he  passed  some  weeks  in  a  Trappist  monastery  at  Casamare  near 
Naples.  Possessing  a  heart  always  open  to  the  su:ffering  no- 
bility of  toil  he  naturally  came  under  the  influence  of  Bastien-  » 
Lepage,  whose  message  was  at  that  period  exerting  its  poignant 
though  prescribed  appeal.  It  is  with  particular  pleasure,  almost 
with  reverence,  that  he  looks  back  upon  a  long  and  intimate 
friendship  with  Puvis  de  Chavannes,  and  to  certain  Tuesday  ' 
evenings  spent  in  the  unpretentious  home  of  Camille  Saint- 
Saens  in  the  rue  Monsieur-le-Prince.  At  the  latter  place  he  used 
to  meet  Mme.  Henri  GreviUe,  the  novelist,  and  the  quaint  and  ' 
courtly  mother  of  the  composer.  On  these  occasions  Saint-Saens 
would  often  play  his  *  Danse  Macabre  '  and  other  selections  with 
that  same  eloquent  brilliancy  which  so  charmed  the  exacting 
Wagner  circle  at  Wahnfried.  Yet  he  was  meanwhile  working 
faithfully  at  his  profession,  and  to  the  Salon  of  1882  sent  his 
first  picture,  entitled  ^  The  Letter,'  which  had  been  painted  in 
Brittany  and  which  already  displayed  the  dominant  qualities  of 
his  art — his  passion  for  colour,  his  accurate  powers  of  observa-  * 
tion  and  of  characterization,  and  his  supple  mastery  of  light.  • 
The  following  season  he  exhibited  two  more  canvases,  which 
were  well  hung  and  favourably  spoken  of,  and  thus,  when  he 

[216] 


GARI    MELCHERS 

decided  to  return  to  America  for  a  brief  visit  during  the  ensuing 
year,  it  was  obvious  tbat  bis  student  days  bad  drawn  to  tbeir 
close. 

On  again  finding  bimself  in  Paris  it  was  Melcbers's  inten- 
tion to  reside  some  time  in  Italy,  but  the  cbolera  preventing, 
be  moved  nortbward,  passing  tbrougb  Bruges  and  Ostend,  and 
finally,  toward  autumn,  settling  in  Holland.  Fascinated  by  tbe 
unspoiled  simplicity  of  tbe  place,  be  acquired  two  properties 
,at  Egmond,  one  being  bis  residence,  at  Egmond-aan-den-Hoef,  • 
tbe  otber  bis  studio,  at  Egmond-aan-Zee.  It  was  from  tbis  same 
seaside  refuge  tbat  be  quickly  began  sending  tbose  sincere, 
straightforward,  and  frankly  buman  canvases  wbicb  to-day 
bang  in  tbe  leading  galleries  of  Europe  and  America,  and  wbicb 
bave  won  tbeir  author  more  and  higher  distinctions  than  have 
thus  far  fallen  to  the  lot  of  any  American-bom  painter.  It  was 
not  through  mere  accident  that  Gari  Melchers  came  to  live  and 
labour  so  long  and  gratefully  in  the  land  of  Rembrandt,  Ruis- ' 
dael,  and  Hobbema.  fit  was  not  alone  the  homely  picturesque- 
ness  of  peasant  or  fisherman,  the  vast,  mottled  skies,  or  tbe  play 
of  constantly  diffused  light  which  attracted  him  to  Holland.  It 
was  also  the  sterling  artistic  traditions  of  tbe  country  itself. 
There  was  surely  something  in  his  own  nature  which  responded 
to  that  sturdy  realistic  impetus  wbicb,  since  the  seventeenth 
century,  has  proved  tbe  balance  wheel  of  European  painting. 
Instinctively  be  perpetuated  and  extended  this  same  tradition. 
With  more  robustness,  less  sentimentality,  and  a  splendid,  al-  • 
most  primal  colour-sense  he  painted  Holland  life  and  scene  as 
the  Dutch  themselves  bad  never  dreamed  of  doing.  Best  of  all,  • 
bis  palette  was  clean  and  fresh.  Tbat  heavy,  golden-brown 
opacity  wbicb  was  tbe  legacy  of  Rembrandt  and  his  school  did 
not  darken  any  of  Gari  Melchers  *s  canvases.  His  Holland  was 
not  the  Holland  of  grey,  damp  autumn  days — the  Holland  of 
convention — ^but  a  Holland  swept  by  the  brisk  north  wind  or 

[217] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

brightened  by  the  pearly  radiance  of  springtime.  Even  when 
he  painted  a  stretch  of  winter  landscape  or  the  whitewashed  in- 
terior of  some  bare  church  the  magic  of  light  was  always  upon 
him.  It  was  not  in  a  spirit  of  half -fulfilled  promise,  but  in  a 
spirit  of  resolute  accomplishment,  that  **  Wahr  und  Klar  ''  was 
traced  above  that  studio  door  which  he  opened  betimes  and  sel- 
dom closed  until  nightfall. 

The  Salon  of  1886  witnessed  his  commanding  re-entry  with 
*  The  Sermon,'  the  following  year  he  divided  first  place  with 
Segantini  at  Amsterdam,  and  1889  saw  the  industrious,  imob- 
trusive  painter  of  Egmond  share  with  Sargent  the  two  medals 
of  honour  allotted  the  American  section  of  the  Paris  Interna- 
tional Exposition.  Not  only  were  the  vast  majority  of  Grand 
Prix  recipients  decidedly  older  than  this  artist  of  eight-and- 
twenty,  most  of  them  were  already  men  of  established  reputa- 
tion, such  as  Israels,  Tadema,  Liebermann,  von  XJhde,  and  the 
like.  While  Melchers's  four  contributions  were  distinctive  and 
individual,  there  was  an  inevitable  affinity  between  his  work  as 
a  whole  and  that  of  Liebermann  and  von  Uhde.  Liebermann, 
too,  had  gone  to  Holland  and  had  painted  Dutch  fisherfolk 
mending  their  nets  on  the  sandy,  weed-strewn  shore  of  Zand- 
voort,  or  the  inmates  of  those  great  city  hospitals  and  asylums 
dozing  or  chatting  in  sunlit  courtyard.  Von  Uhde,  also,  had 
striven  to  bring  home  to  simple  minds  not  only  the  spiritual 
message,  but  the  bodily  presence  of  our  Lord  just  as  He  might 
gather  about  Him  the  poor  and  stricken  children  of  to-day.  It 
was  not  that  Gari  Melchers  in  any  way  imitated  these  men.  He 
merely  formed  part  of  a  symptomatic  movement  which  both 
glorified  the  workmen  and  endeavoured  to  restate  Scriptural 
truths  in  the  most  unaffected  of  modern  terms.  Champions  of 
this  procedure  have  been  many,  one  phase  of  its  expression  be- 
ginning with  the  immortal  painter-etcher  of  Leyden  and  Am- 
sterdam, and  continuing,  through  Millet,  to  the  naturalistic  and 

[218] 


GARI    MELCHERS 

mystical  Bastien-Lepage.  In  this  category  Melchers  takes  high 
rank.  It  would  in  fact  be  difficult  to  point  to  any  work  of  its 
class  more  rugged  and  more  devout,  more  realistic  in  its  outward 
setting  or  more  reverent  in  spirit,  than  his  ^  Supper  at  Emmaus  ' 
where  for  a  moment  the  Master  seats  Himself  in  the  midst  of 
these  humble  folk  and  breaks  bread  at  their  rude  board. 

Nevertheless  it  is  impossible  to  maintain  that  these  belated 
pietists,  these  Christian  socialists  of  art,  achieved  exalted  re- 
sults. The  visions  which  the  gentle  Bastien  saw  in  the  garden 
of  Damvillers,  those  touching  episodes  von  Uhde  beheld  in  Ger- 
man cottage,  or  the  melodramatic  scenes  Munkacsy  fabricated 
in  his  sumptuous  Paris  studio  are  alike  unconvincing,  alike 
wanting  in  true  spiritual  naivete.  The  idea  itself  involves  a 
contradiction,  a  paradox,  and  hence  it  was  inevitable  that  when 
Gari  Melchers  confined  himself  to  less  problematic  themes  he 
should  have  attained  a  more  consistent  level.  Untouched  by 
personal  subjectivity  and  unclouded  by  creed  he  painted  Dutch 
life  in  its  deepest,  most  intimate  phases.  They  were  mainly 
figure  compositions  sharply  seen  and  exactly  recorded.    After 

*  The  Sermon  '  came  *  The  Communion  ' ;  after  *  The  Pilots  ' — 
as  notable  a  performance  in  its  way  as  Leibl's  *  Village  Politi- 
cians ' — came  *  The  Shipbuilder.'  Sometimes  he  went  out-of- 
doors  where  he  was  himself  fond  of  spending  a  restful  hour. 

*  In  the  Dunes  '  walk  two  flaxen-haired  peasant  girls,  one  carry- 
ing a  yoke  and  a  pair  of  blue  milk  pails,  the  other  a  huge  basket. 
Striding  briskly  over  the  crusted  snow  a  couple  of  *  Skaters  ' 
hurry  along  toward  the  frozen  canal.  The  whole  subdued  yet 
colourful  portrait  of  Holland  is  there.  Prim  interiors  are  per- 
meated with  that  hard  northern  glare  which  suffuses  all  things 
with  a  note  of  sadness  and  resignation.  Exterior  scenes  respond 
obediently  to  shifting  season  or  the  precise  hour  of  day.  It  is 
an  art  which  is  explicit  and  veracious.  Nothing,  surely,  could 
be  more  vigorous,  more  wholesome,  or  more  refreshing  in  its 

[219] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

calm  sanity.  The  very  soundness  of  its  technique  bespeaks  a 
superbly  balanced  organization.  And  above  all  Melchers  was 
painting  air  as  well  as  light.  He  never  failed  subtly  to  har- 
monize subject  and  environment.  Smoothly  and  without  insist- 
ence upon  a  series  of  distracting  dots  he  always  managed  to  sug- 
gest that  intervening  aerial  mediima  between  the  seer  and  the 
thing  seen. 

While  at  first  the  painter  seemed  satisfied  with  accuracy  of 
vision  and  fidelity  of  rendering,  a  certain  gentler  touch  gradu- 
ally crept  into  his  work.  Those  rigid  forms  seated  in  bare 
Lutheran  churches  unbent  before  the  fireside  or  amid  the  in- 
timacy of  the  domestic  circle.  Inflexible  truth  became  mellowed 
and  modified  by  a  tenderness  that  flowed  straight  from  the  hu- 
man heart.  Wholly  endearing  in  their  frank  community  of  feel- 
ing are  ^  The  Family/  now  hanging  in  the  National  Gallery  of 
Berlin,  and  the  *  Maternity  ^  of  the  Luxembourg,  the  latter  show- 
ing a  blonde  mother  in  flowered  cap  and  cape  holding  in  her  arms 
a  serious,  blue-eyed  infant.  It  is  in  pictures  such  as  these  as 
well  as  in  the  later  and  still  more  simple  and  direct  *  Mother  and 
Child  '  which  has  found  its  home  in  America  that  Melchers 
strikes  his  truest,  most  profound  note.  It  is  here  that  he  reveals 
better  than  in  certain  more  ambitious  canvases  the  potential 
divinity  in  all  humankind.  Constant  effort  and  discipline  both 
moral  and  technical  were  necessary  in  order  that  such  results 
might  be  attained.  Through  a  gradual,  unhurried  sequence  of 
development  he  broadened  and  deepened  that  which  had  come 
to  him  by  right  of  birth.  The  patient  years  passed  at  Egmond 
served  to  bring  forth  just  those  qualities  which  were  most  sig- 
nificant and  most  enduring  alike  in  the  painter  and  in  his  chosen 
themes. 

From  the  hour  he  first  settled  in  Holland  until  he  had  suc- 
cessively won  the  highest  honours  in  Munich,  Paris,  and  else- 
where, he  had  led  an  ungregarious,  almost  obscure  existence. 

[220] 


GARI    MELCHERS 

Later,  one  of  his  whims  was  to  have  a  number  of  studios  at  the 
same  time  in  different  places,  and  to  drift  to  each  in  turn  as  he 
desired  a  change  of  view  or  fresh  impetus.  No  one,  in  those 
bachelor  days,  ever  knew  where  to  find  him.  He  might  be  at 
Egmond,  in  Paris,  in  Picardy,  or  at  Bois-le-Roi  on  the  edge  of 
the  forest  of  Fontainebleau.  His  mail  followed  him  aimlessly 
about  or  accumulated  unregarded  in  one  particular  spot.  His 
friends  were  amused  or  annoyed  according  to  their  varied  dis- 
positions, and  dealers  on  the  hunt  for  pictures  were  driven  to 
distraction.  It  is  peculiarly  characteristic  of  Melchers  that, 
after  having  sent  his  four  big  canvases  to  the  Paris  Exposition 
of  1889,  he  should  have  gone  off  to  the  coimtry  on  a  sketching 
trip,  leaving  imopened  on  his  return,  for  several  additional  days, 
the  official  announcement  of  his  award.  Possessing  such  a  tem- 
perament it  has  been  impossible  for  him  to  grow  stale  or  fall 
into  a  rut.  Personally  without  a  trace  of  the  routine  or  the  .f_. 
artificial,  his  vision  has  continued  vivacious  and  animated,  and 
artistic  enthusiasm  has  never  flagged.  Moreover,  he  has  never 
been  the  victim  of  a  system  or  a  theory.  While  a  persistent, 
exacting  workman  he  has  no  special  mode  of  procedure.  Each 
subject  presents  new  difficulties  and  new  possibilities.  He  might 
well  say  with  Manet,  **  Every  time  I  begin  a  picture  it  is  like 
throwing  myself  into  the  water  and  learning  how  to  swim."  A 
portrait  may  be  finished  in  a  week,  and  an  elaborate  composition 
within  a  month,  or  again  it  may  take  him  years  to  achieve  the 
desired  result.  Industry  and  inspiration  are  his  twin,  though 
not  always  simultaneous,  helpmates. 

The  Paris  studio  was  situated  for  a  number  of  years  in  the 
rue  Viete,  just  off  the  avenue  de  Villiers,  it  having  previously 
belonged  to  de  Nittis,  the  delicate,  spirited  painter  of  street 
scenes.  At  the  near-by  cafe  Drey  used  to  dine  regularly  most 
of  the  artists  and  writers  of  the  neighbourhood  including  Puvis 
de  Chavannes,  Dannat,  Edelfeldt,  Munkacsy,  and  Dmnas  fils. 

[221] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

Between  Puvis  de  Chavannes  and  Melchers  the  most  cordial  re- 
lations were  always  maintained,  the  younger  man  often  visiting 
the  serene,  pacific  synthesist  of  art  and  humanity  at  his  studio 
in  the  place  Pigalle.  It  was  Puvis 's  custom  to  receive  a  few 
chosen  intimates  from  eight  until  nine  in  the  morning,  usually 
arrayed  in  a  long  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  going  later  to  his 
quarters  at  Neuilly^  where  he  worked  in  absolute  seclusion  upon 
his  limpid,  arcadian  compositions.  On  one  of  these  morning 
calls  it  was  Melchers's  privilege  to  watch  another  earnest  vision- 
ary, Eugene  Carriere,  paint  a  portrait-head  of  Puvis  as  he  stood 
by  the  window  in  apostolic  robe  and  pantoufles.  It  was  a  lesson 
the  young  artist  never  forgot,  nor  can  he  ever  fail  to  recall  with 
genuine  emotion  the  day  he  was  named  a  Chevalier  of  the  Legion 
of  Honour  when  Puvis  affectionately  gave  him  his  own  cross, 
with  its  bit  of  faded  ribbon,  which  he  had  himself  received  years 
before  from  the  hand  of  Napoleon  III.  They  shared,  indeed, 
many  points  in  common,  among  others  a  dignity,  a  tolerance 
toward  varied  and  diverse  forms  of  artistic  expression,  and 
above  all  a  devotion  to  their  calling  which  nothing  could  impede 
or  belittle.  And  it  was  hence  with  pleasure,  rather  than  the  re- 
verse, that  one  later  noted  in  Melchers's  mural  decorations  for 
the  Congressional  Library  in  Washington  a  legitimate  and  sym- 
pathetic recognition  of  that  same  ample  simplicity  of  conception 
>  and  treatment  which  had  made  the  art  of  Puvis  de  Chavannes 
one  of  the  imperishable  glories  of  nineteenth-century  painting. 

It  was  but  natural,  after  so  long  a  residence  abroad  and  such 
continued  Continental  success,  that  Gari  Melchers  should  have 
at  length  turned  toward  his  native  country,  where  he  was  less 
known  and  where  he  had  so  seldom  exhibited.  Within  a  short 
time  he  has  managed  closely  to  identify  himself  with  local  con- 
ditions. The  medium  has  been  portraiture;  nor  is  portraiture 
anything  of  a  departure,  for  throughout  his  career  he  has  not 
only  painted  numerous  specific  likenesses,  but  has  always  been 

[222] 


Copi/right.  7.907,  bj/  Detroit  PiihUshiniy  Company 


MOTHER    AND    CHILD 

By  Gari  Melchers 

[Courtesy  of  James  Deering,  Esq.l 


GARI    MELCHERS 

a  discerning  student  of  human  physiognomy.  You  need  only 
gaze  at  the  sober,  characterful  mien  of  ^  The  Man  with  the 
Cloak  '  who  looks  from  the  walls  of  the  National  Gallery  of 
Rome,  or  note  the  appropriately  decorative  *  Braban^onne  '  in 
order  to  realize  how  far  he  had  already  carried  this  particular 
branch  of  art.  And  still  when  he  finally  returned  to  America  he 
discovered  just  that  quality  which  had  thus  far  been  lacking, 
and  which  seemed,  indeed,  there  to  be  awaiting  him.  During 
the  early  and  middle  phases  of  his  development  he  had  practised 
an  almost  anti-emotional  verity  of  statement.  He  had  looked 
upon  life  with  a  certain  rigidity,  the  rigidity  of  the  realist  who 
adds  nothing,  who  takes  nothing  away.  It  remained  for  him  to 
acquire  a  welcome  flexibility  of  interpretation,  and  this  he 
attained  without  sacrificing  an  iota  of  his  previous  conquest.  It 
was  in  the  nature  of  the  man  to  give  no  hostages,  to  make  no  con- 
cessions, nor  has  he  ever  swerved  from  this  rule.  There  is  no 
need  for  inferring  that  his  former  work  with  its  fresh,  vivid 
colour-spots,  its  grave  coimtenances,  and  enticing  glimpses  of 
landscape — a  wood,  a  garden,  or  the  red  roof  of  some  adjacent 
cottage — ^was  in  any  degree  wanting  in  a  distinct,  inherent  ap- 
peal of  its  own,  yet  the  more  recent  canvases  display  an  added 
measure  of  grace.  The  man  who  depicted  with  such  resolute 
accent  the  facts  of  humbler  existence  grasps  no  less  accurately 
the  spirit  of  those  more  complex  beings  whose  portraits  he  is 
now  engaged  in  painting.  While  not  without  their  touch  of 
urbanity  they  are  not  facile  or  frivolous  likenesses.  They  re- 
veal, each  of  them,  a  rounded,  certain  mastery  and  a  tonality 
as  crisp  and  ringing  as  it  is  unconventional.  No  vague,  unsani- 
tary landscapes  envelop  these  individuals,  nor  are  they  suffo- 
cated with  costly  hangings  or  imperilled  by  unsteady  bits  of 
pottery.  All  is  consistent,  legitimate,  and  stimulating.  You 
never  see  in  this  work  a  touch  of  drama  or  a  hint  of  trickery. 
There  is  no  convulsive  straining  after  effect.    The  right  result 

[223] 


I 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

comes  through  an  instinctive,  well-nigh  infallible,  power  of 
selection.  The  requisite  elements  for  each  picture  seem  always 
to  have  dwelt  here  within  the  limits  of  the  frame. 

Although  modern  in  the  best  interpretation  of  the  word,  Gari 
Melchers  is  no  restless,  precipitate  innovator.  One  of  his  most 
tjrpical  characteristics  is  a  respect  for  his  predecessors.  As  he 
himself  says,  **  Nothing  counts  in  this  world  with  the  painter 
but  a  good  picture ;  and  no  matter  how  good  a  one  you  may  paint, 
you  have  only  to  go  to  the  galleries  and  see  how  many  better  ones 
there  are."  One  of  his  few  theories  is  that  the  fine  things  in  art 
are  nearly  always  so  for  the  same  or  similar  reasons;  and  he 
also  believes  that  the  really  big  men  of  all  times  are  strikingly 
alike.  Wholly  imdisturbed  by  sudden  and  apparently  radical 
changes  of  manner  in  others,  he  paints  with  a  breadth  and  assur- 
ance that  never  fail  to  convey  the  desired  impression.  Behind 
the  slightest  of  his  sketches  or  the  most  ambitious  full-length  is 
visible  a  sound,  disciplined  certainty  of  purpose  which  can 
hardly  go  astray.  Though  in  glancing  at  his  work  you  may 
vaguely  be  reminded  of  this  painter  or  that,  you  will  scarcely 
think  of  anyone  not  in  the  highest  degree  a  master-craftsman. 
Melchers  is  not  a  subjective  or  an  imaginative  artist.  He  be- 
longs to  the  sturdy,  positive  race  of  observers.  The  spirit  of  his 
art,  as  well  as  its  expression,  is  frankly  objective.  He  con- 
tinues that  tradition  which  is  represented  with  such  impregnable 
strength  and  security  by  some  of  the  foremost  painters  the  world 
has  ever  known — ^by  Hals  in  Holland  and  Holbein  in  Germany. 

^No  change  of  taste  or  temper  can  ever  dislodge  men  whose  work 
/  is  characterized  by  a  similar  directness,  simplicity,  and  ample, 

/  generous  humanity.  They  offer  a  splendid  counterpoise  to 
tendencies  which  are  nervous  and  effete.  Their  very  solidity 
defies  all  transition,  all  fluctuation.    Now  that  he  has  returned 

,    for  a  portion  of  each  season,  it  is  doubly  apparent  that  Gari 

I    Melchers 's  sojourn  abroad  has  splendidly  served  its  purpose. 

[224] 


aARI    MELCHERS 

The  years  in  Egmond  and  Paris,  or  the  visits  to  London,  where 
his  friends  numbered  Watts  and  Val  Prinsep,  as  well  as  Shan- 
non, have  borne  rich  fruit.  He  left  a  mere  lad.  He  has  come 
back  a  mature  artist  bringing  to  a  new  country  the  lessons 
taught  so  well  in  the  old.  It  was  not  otherwise  that  the  great 
pioneers  of  the  past  were  wont  to  do  when  Diirer  wandered 
homeward  from  Italy  or  van  Dyck  crossed  the  Channel  to 
England. 


[225] 


J.  J.  SHANNON 


J.    J.    SHANNON 

Portrait  of  the  artist  painted  by  himself 

{^Courtesy  of  Mr.  Shannon^ 


J.  J.  SHANN"ON^ 


IT  is  in  portraiture,  in  the  definite  transcription  of  feature 
and  of  form,  that  the  artist  is  presumably  more  faithful 
to  fact  than  to  the  allurements  of  fancy.  Yet  a  certain 
proportion  of  the  great  portrait  painters  have  from  the  outset 
been  fantasists.  The  brooding  mystery  of  the  *  Mona  Lisa,* 
the  luminous  gloom  that  shrouds  the  heads  of  Rembrandt's 
burghers,  the  matchless  tonal  unity  of  Velazquez's  *  Philip,' 
and  the  silver  sheen  that  plays  about  the  brow  of  van  Dyck's 
*  Charles  '  are  all  the  sheer  magic  of  creative  genius.  From  the 
days  when  the  Greeks  tinted  their  marbles  and  studded  them 
with  jewels  to  the  hour  Sargent  painted  *  Mrs.  Hamersley  '  re- 
clining among  brocade  cushions,  artists  have  striven  to  lift  per- 
sonality beyond  the  realm  of  mere  reality.  The  part  man  has 
been  called  upon  to  play  in  portraiture  is  a  distinctly  obvious 
one.  I  In  pietistic  days  he  obediently  knelt  before  a  shrine,  in 
martial  times  he  pranced  upon  a  charger,  and  in  the  hour  of  * 
peace  he  mused  by  the  window  or  fireside  or  sat  in  sunlit  door- 
way. As  occasion  demanded  he  wore  robes  of  state  or  the  white 
ruff  of  a  simple  townsman.  His  role  has  always  remained  more 
or  less  literal  and  documentary./  With  woman,  matters  have 
been  different,  and  it  is  because  of  her  evasiveness,  her  psychic 
and  emotional  flexibility,  that  she  embodies  and  reflects  the 
subtler  essence  of  portraiture.  Whatever  man  has  wished  her 
to  be  she  has  become;  whatever  mantle  he  has  cast  about  her 
shoulders  she  has  worn.    In  the  age  of  allegory  she  was  appro- 

[229] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

priately  allegorical,  in  the  days  of  romance  she  was  radiantly 
romantic,  while  to-day  she  is  as  restless  and  fastidious  as  man's 
own  exacting  vision.  It  is  impossible  not  to  feel  that  the  listless 
evocations  of  Botticelli,  or  the  dainty  divinities  of  Boucher  and 
Fragonard,  are  portraits  only  by  inference.  They  are  not  Si- 
monetta.  Pompadour,  or  du  Barry.  They  are  symbols  of  a 
persistent,  though  ever  changing  sense  of  beauty.  By  a  curious 
and  piquant  contradiction  this  fluid,  unquiet  being  typifies  one 
of  the  enduring  elements  alike  in  art  and  in  life — the  element 
of  ideality.  With  all  her  complexity,  it  can  hardly  be  held  that 
the  modem  woman  is  as  complex  and  as  diverse  as  the  painter 
of  the  present  depicts  her.  It  is  rather  that  he  sees  her,  with 
aesthetic  and  temperamental  eye,  in  this  guise  or  that  and  paints 
her  not  as  she  is,  but  as  he  would  have  her.  The  modish  dex- 
terity of  Sargent,  the  impalpable  synthesis  of  Whistler,  and  the 
vapoury  volutions  of  Alexander  are  the  specific  properties  each 
artist  in  turn  brings  to  the  delineation  of  appearance  and  per- 
sonality, and  it  is  these  qualities  which,  after  all,  constitute  the 
final  impression.  There  is  of  course  a  broad  similarity  of  treat- 
ment in  all  current  portraiture.  Yet  whether  she  gently  emerges 
from  the  fogs  of  London,  the  opal  haze  of  Paris,  or  stands  in 
New  York's  relucent  sunlight,  the  woman  of  to-day,  as  of  for- 
mer years,  bears  the  impress  of  her  time  and  her  interpreter. 
About  her  cling  not  so  much  the  outward  accidents  of  life  as  the 
finer  tissues  of  feeling  and  aspiration.  She  impersonates  an 
ideal,  or — to  the  irreverent  and  insensitive — a  convention. 

British  art  during  its  richest  period — ^that  of  the  later 
eighteenth  century — ^was  pre-eminently  dedicated  to  portrait- 
ure. The  first  president  of  the  Royal  Academy,  the  worthy  Sir 
Joshua,  was  almost  exclusively  a  painter  of  portraits,  and 
though  Gainsborough's  landscapes  are  justly  approved,  his 
fame,  as  well  as  that  of  Romney,  Hoppner,  and  their  successors, 
rests  upon  a  spirited  and  characteristic  record  of  the  gracious 

[230] 


J.    J.    SHANNON 

women  and  gallant  men  of  their  day  and  generation.  It  was 
chiefly,  indeed,  the  arch  allure  of  English  womanhood  and  the 
wild-rose  bloom  of  the  English  girl  that  these  men  most  loved 
to  limn  upon  canvas.  No  school  of  painting,  and  no  period  of 
artistic  activity,  has  left  behind  a  more  engaging  transcription 
of  feminine  loveliness.  Though  this  eloquent  tradition  origi- 
nated with  Rubens,  and  was  carried  overseas  to  the  lasting  bene- 
fit of  British  art  by  van  Dyck,  it  quickly  became  naturalized 
in  its  new  surroundings.  Moreover,  there  was  nothing  either 
artificial  or  illogical  in  the  proceeding,  for  there  was,  and  still 
is,  a  marked  racial  affinity  between  Englishmen  of  the  east  and 
south  and  the  Teutons  of  northern  Europe.  While  the  painter 
of  the  Stuarts  brought  with  him  a  certain  requisite  poise  and 
worldly  stateliness,  it  was  from  the  winding  lanes  and  green 
hedgerows  of  rural  England  that  was  wafted  the  true  morn- 
ing-glory of  British  art.  From  Plympton,  in  Devon,  where 
Reynolds  was  bom,  from  Gainsborough's  smiling  Suffolk,  and 
the  Lancashire,  long  neglected  but  never  forgotten,  of  Romney, 
there  came  to  painting  a  new  beauty,  a  fresh  fragrance.  No 
matter  whether  they  passed  most  of  their  time  immortalizing 
great  folk,  living  in  imposing  mansions  in  Leicester,  or  Caven- 
dish Square,  and  mixing  with  the  world  of  fashion,  neither  these 
men  nor  their  colleagues,  Lawrence  and  Opie,  quite  lost  that 
touch  of  wholesome  Saxon  charm  which  radiates  alike  from 
^  The  Parson's  Daughter,'  *  Nelly  O'Brien,'  or  *  Perdita  Rob- 
inson '  seated  before  her  screen  of  springtime  foliage.  While;' 
this  particular  ideal  of  beauty,  or,  if  you  will,  this  convention,! 
never  wholly  disappeared,  it  altered  sadly  during  succeeding) 
decades.  Now  it  expanded  with  the  outdoor  sentimentalists  into\ 
a  smooth,  milkmaid  buxomness,  again,  with  the  Pre-Raphaelites,/  ^ 
it  became  vegetative  and  deciduous.  It  was  close  upon  a  century^v 
before  the  true  spirit  of  this  art,  with  its  unstudied  distinction  l 
and  its  frank  worship  of  fair,  sweet  faces,  again  came  into  vogue. 

[231] 


MODERN    AETISTS 

And,  odd  as  it  may  seem,  it  was  not  a  native  Englishman,  but  a 
young  painter  from  across  the  water,  who  has  in  large  measure 
revived  the  graphic  felicity  of  former  times. 

Apart  from  theories  diverting  or  informing  painting  is 
primarily  a  matter  of  vision. }  The  vision  of  Watts  was  a  spir- 
itual vision,  the  vision  of  Eossetti  was  sensuous,  and  that  of 
Sargent  is  external  and  physical.  It  is  not  the  moral,  the  langor- 
ous  and  narcotic,  or  the  assertively  mundane  portrait  which  J.  J. 
Shannon  paints,  but  the  portrait  which  may  be  designated  as 
pictorial.  ^  Though  influenced  on  one  side  by  the  native  ele- 
gance of  English  eighteenth-century  art,  and  on  the  other  by  the 
sweeping,  comprehensive  grasp  of  Velazquez,  the  formula  which 
Shannon  employs  with  such  success  is  none  the  less  his  own,  and 
is  one  which  appeals  to  him  with  imperious  conviction.  What- 
ever he  has  accomplished  is  personal,  for  few  painters  have 
studied  less,  and  relied  more  upon  inherent  impulse.  Other  men 
may  view  things  vaguely  or  positively,  veiled  in  mystery  or 
sharpened  by  actuality.  Shannon  belongs  to  those  who  will  first 
and  last  see  an  object,  and  render  it,  with  reference  to  its  value 
as  a  picture,  as  something  possessing,  within  prescribed  limita- 
tions, an  almost  independent  existence.  With  ready,  spontane- 
ous tact,  and  with  genuine  taste,  he  brings  together  and  har- 
monizes various  appropriate  accessories  until  he  has  secured  an 
effect  which  is  less  formal  than  fanciful,  less  literal,  in  short, 
than  free  and  instinctive.  The  idea  is  not  exclusive.  It  is  prac- 
tised in  a  measure  by  every  painter,  though  few  employ  it  so 
consistently,  and  few  attain  a  similar  charm  and  unity  of 
impress. 

It  need  not  be  assumed  that  Shannon  spends  feverish  days 
devising  elaborate  combinations.  He  is  not  one  of  those  indus- 
trious individuals  who  set  the  stage  before  beginning  a  portrait. 
Gifts  both  visual  and  temperamental  enable  him  to  perceive  at 
a  glance  the  decorative  possibilities  of  a  single  figure  or  a  group, 

[232] 


LADY    MARJORIE    MANNERS 
By  J.  J.  Shannon 
l^Courtesy  of  the  artist] 


J.    J.    SHANNON 

and  fluent  technical  mastery  makes  it  easy  for  him  to  translate  a 
scene  in  all  its  animation  and  vitality.  It  is  in  like  fashion  that 
he  has  painted  maid  of  honour  and  marchioness,  flower  girl  from 
the  sun-bright  street  or  blustering  master  of  hounds.  Framed 
by  the  roses  and  hollyhocks  of  his  own  garden  stands  '  Lady 
Henry  Cavendish-Bentinck. '  On  the  terrace  of  Haddon  lingers 
the  slender,  high-bred  form  of  little  *  Lord  Ross. '  The  priceless 
quality  of  the  art  to  which  Shannon  and  his  colleagues  are  the 
heirs  is  its  ability  to  suggest  the  special  atmosphere  and  environ- 
ment of  a  given  period.  This  power  of  placing  the  sitter  in 
proper  relation  to  his  surroundings  should  be  not  the  least  aim 
of  portraiture.  It  is  a  faculty  which  Shannon  exercises  with 
singular  fitness.  To  him  beauty  and  beauty's  setting  are  in- 
separable, indissoluble. 

The  man  who,  for  a  score  and  more  of  years  has  been  paint- 
ing such  a  graceful,  aristocratic  succession  of  British  naen  and 
women  is  not,  as  many  have  inferred,  either  an  Englishman  or 
an  Irishman  by  actual  right  of  nativity.  J.  J.  Shannon  was  bom  ^^ 
on  3  February  1862,  in  Auburn,  New  York.  Still,  as  but  one 
generation  separates  him  from  the  British  Isles,  and  since  his 
boyhood  was  spent  across  the  border  at  St.  Catherines,  in 
Canada,  he  cannot,  with  ethnic  precision,  be  claimed  as  an  Amer- 
ican. Despite  a  precocious  liking  for  art  he  does  not  come  from 
a  race  of  painters,  the  nearest  approach  to  the  fraternity  the 
family  had  previously  produced  being  his  grandfather,  who  was 
an  architect.  As  in  the  case  of  almost  everyone  who  attains 
position,  his  youth  and  early  struggles  have  been  enriched  by 
legends  picturesque  and  apocryphal.  Needless  to  say  he  is 
thankful  that  none  of  these  happenings  ever  took  place  outside 
the  agile  brains  of  biographers  and  critics  in  search  of  local 
colour.  Never,  he  smilingly  avers,  did  he  wander  about  rural 
Canada  painting  posters  for  agricultural  shows  or  selling  hand- 
tinted  copies  of  Landseer's  canine  and  bovine  masterpieces.    He 

[233] 


MODERISr    ARTISTS 

neither  studied  in  Munich  nor  starved  in  Paris.  It  is  true  that 
he  began  in  a  modest  way,  but  the  way  was  wholesome  and  typi- 
cal. In  a  shop  window  he  often  passed  hung  a  still-life  composi- 
tion which  impressed  the  future  exhibitor  at  the  Royal  Academy 
as  being  more  ambitious  than  exact.  It  showed  a  rabbit  and  a 
partridge  dangling  on  a  nail,  and  though  the  work  of  an  eminent 
resident  painter,  it  failed  to  satisfy  the  boy^s  maturing  ideals. 
Craving  a  more  accurate  and  worthy  representation  of  the  same 
theme  the  young  realist  forthwith  sallied  out  and  shot  his  own 
rabbit  and  bird  and  suspended  them  in  an  unoccupied  room  at 
the  rear  of  the  house.  There,  with  nothing  better  at  his  disposal 
than  plain  unprepared  cardboard  and  common  mixed  paint,  the 
work  was  begun.  The  boy  had  to  play  truant  while  thus  en- 
gaged, so  after  painting  all  morning  or  afternoon,  he  would  put 
on  his  cap  and  mitts  and  dash  into  the  house  breathless  and 
aglow,  pretending  he  had  been  to  school.  At  the  end  of  several 
days  the  game  got  so  "  high  "  that  the  family  was  moved  to  in- 
vestigate the  situation  with  the  result  that  the  picture,  which 
had  almost  reached  completion,  was  finished  with  full  parental 
approval.  Matters  did  not,  however,  end  there,  for  the  boy's 
effort  was  subsequently  exhibited  in  the  same  shop  window  side 
by  side  with  the  elder  artist's  canvas,  the  concensus  of  local  crit- 
ical opinion  distinctly  favouring  the  new  school  of  still-life 
painting. 

The  success  of  his  first  attempt  being  so  manifest,  the  latent 
Associate  was  at  once  placed  in  the  care  of  Wright,  St.  Cather- 
ines's  leading  all-around  painter.  At  the  end  of  a  few  months 
the  amiable  and  conscientious  Wright,  who  could  paint  anything 
from  a  bowl  of  fruit  to  a  coach  and  four,  confessed  that  his  pupil 
had  exhausted  the  artistic  resources  of  St.  Catherines.  Wright 
urged  that  the  boy  be  sent  to  London  or  Paris  in  order  to  com- 
plete his  training,  and  for  family  and  other  reasons  London  was 
the  choice.    Thus,  toward  the  end  of  his  sixteenth  year,  J.  J. 

[234] 


J.    J.     SHANNON 

Shannon  found  himself  a  student  at  the  South  Kensington 
Schools,  along  with  Menpes  and  Clausen.  It  was  his  original 
intention  to  have  remained  for  a  limited  time  only,  but  so  excep- 
tional was  the  progress  made  by  the  former  painter  of  *  A  Rab- 
bit and  a  Partridge  '  that  Mr.  (now  Sir  Edward  J.)  Poynter 
wrote  with  enthusiasm  to  the  lad's  parents  commending  his  abil- 
ity and  urging  that  he  be  allowed  to  continue  at  the  Schools. 
Although  he  stayed  sometime  longer,  Shannon  declined  to  be 
enslaved  by  preceptor  or  sterilized  by  routine.  He  preferred 
to  move  faster  than  is  customary  at  South  Kensington.  He  took 
the  silver  medal  for  his  first  year's  work  in  the  life-room,  and 
at  the  close  of  his  second  was  awarded  the  gold  medal  in  the 
national  competition.  Portraiture  was  naturally  his  chief  pre- 
occupation, and  while  still  a  student  he  was  commissioned  to 
paint  for  the  queen  the  likeness  of  Miss  Horatia  Stopford,  one 
of  the  maids  of  honour,  the  canvas  being  exhibited  at  the  Acad- 
emy of  1881  by  royal  command. 

Yet  the  youth  who  at  eighteen  painted  his  first  court  beauty, 
had  still  to  convince  the  London  public  that  he  possessed  both  a 
manner  and  a  message.  Though  he  forthwith  rented  a  studio 
and  began  work  with  infectious  optimism,  it  cannot  be  said  that 
measurable  results  were  attained  until  some  five  years  later  when 
he  sent  to  the  Grosvenor  Gallery  a  simple  and  direct  full-length 
of  Mrs.  Shannon,  which  was  catalogued  as  ^  A  Lady  in  Black.' 
The  insidious  influence  of  Whistler  was  apparent,  yet  the  picture 
more  than  established  the  newcomer's  claim  to  consideration. 
With  the  exhibition  at  the  same  gallery  the  following  season  of 
his  standing  likeness  of  *  The  Late  Henry  Vigne,  Esquire,'  Shan- 
non's position  was  assured.  Forceful  in  characterization,  af- 
firmative in  draughtsmanship,  and  displaying  a  fulfilling  sense 
of  colour  and  of  design,  the  canvas  was  not  only  received  with 
enthusiasm  in  England  but  subsequently  won  first  honours  in 
Paris,  Berlin,  and  Vienna.    There  was  no  further  question  as 

[235] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

to  the  painter's  future.  Beginning  with  an  order  from  the 
Marchioness  of  Granby,  who  was  among  the  first  women  of  title 
to  discover  his  talent,  commissions  rapidly  poured  in  upon  the 
artist  who  soon  secured,  and  has  since  retained,  his  position  as 
the  most  brilliant  among  the  yoimger  Anglo-Saxon  portraitists. 
Within  a  few  brief  years — it  was  in  1897 — ^he  was  elected  an 
Associate  of  the  Royal  Academy,  of  which  his  former  professor, 
Sir  Edward  J.  Poynter,  had  just  previously  been  chosen  presi- 
dent. It  proved  an  unconamonly  auspicious  occasion  for  good 
men,  Sargent  having  been  made  an  R.  A.,  and  Alfred  Parsons, 
like  Shannon,  an  A.  R.  A. 

It  would  be  superfluous  to  follow  from  canvas  to  canvas  the 
progress  of  Shannon's  art.  Prodigally  productive,  a  mere 
enumeration  of  his  portraits  would  fill  defenseless  souls  with 
dismay.  It  is  sufficient  to  note  that  he  has  been  represented 
season  after  season  at  Burlington  House,  the  New  Gallery,  the 
Grafton  Gallery,  and  the  Fine  Arts  Society  in  London,  as  well 
as  various  British,  Continental,  and  American  exhibitions.  In 
common  with  Melchers  and  Lavery  he  is  especially  partial  to 
the  Venice  International,  being  a  frequent  exhibitor  at  those 
admirable  biennial  displays  in  the  distant  Water  City.  To  the 
customary  seeker  after  charm  of  statement  or  vigour  of  analysis, 
this  vast  sequence  of  canvases  drops  naturally  into  three  classes 
— portraits  wherein  beauty  predominates,  portraits  wherein 
characterization  is  the  chief  motive,  and  compositions  revealing 
a  less  restricted  play  of  invention.  It  is  little  short  of  astonish- 
ing that  the  lad  whose  early  attempts  were  as  cautious  as  the 
work  of  his  first  master,  the  estimable  Wright  of  St.  Catherines, 
should,  within  a  few  years,  have  perfected  a  manner  so  supple 
and  flowing  in  its  expression  and  imbued  with  such  suavity  and 
distinction.  From  that  first  sweeping  portrait  of  ^  Lady  Gran- 
by '  to  the  last  canvas  standing  unfinished  in  his  oak-panelled 
London  studio  he  has  moved  steadily  toward  a  fuller  realization 

[236] 


MISS    KITTY 

By  J.  J.  Shannon 

l^The  Carnegie  Institute,  Pittsburgh] 


to  the  par 


:i  ord( 


, . . .  , . .  , .. . g  the  younger  Aia ^ ^-.^ , , ^ ^.^ .x  ■. 
brief  vcars-it  ^^-a?;  in  18f>7 — he  wat 


i  the  Rov« 


It  would  l- 
^  of  f- 
ation  < 
It  i 

as  various  Bri 
^'ordmon  ^ 
the  Ye 
admira 

'^maiy  Bee' 


s  restricted  p 
'hat  the  lad  > 

-  firF*  master, 
•Id.  withii, 

its  exT 


his  former  p 
'It  been  chos^ 

>n  for  good 
d  Alfred  Parsons^ 

canvas  the 


■a  London,  as 
n  f*xhibitions. 

it  those 
•  Oifcy.    To  the 
Vigour  of, 
■  into  three  o: 
'"^rtraits  wh- 
tions  r*^^^ 

.rtof  Li 

autious  a> 
of  8t.  Oatherines, 
:r  so  supph? 
•id  with  such 
I'om  that  first  swe^?pmg  portrait  of  '  Lady  G rai»- 
oanvas  standing  unfinished  in  his  oak-panelled 
baa  moved  steadily  toward  a  f idler  ition 

[236] 


YTTTVr    ^^TM 


Copyright,  1902,  by  Caniegie  Institute 


J.    J.    SHANNON 

of  his  pictorial  aim.  Though  haste  has  here  and  there  told  ad- 
versely upon  his  production,  and  though  he  has  been  continually 
forced  to  choose  between  popularity  and  good  painting,  the 
vision  has  daily  grown  ampler  and  the  tone  of  his  art  more 
individual.  And  almost  automatic  facility  of  choice  and  fer- 
tility of  colouration  and  composition  mark  most  of  the  later 
work.  Whatever  there  is  attractive  in  the  sitter  seems  spon- 
taneously to  spring  to  the  eye  of  the  painter  and  to  flow  from 
the  swift,  obedient  stroke  of  his  brush.  It  appears  at  times 
perilously  easy  for  him  to  paint,  and  in  the  ease  lurks,  of  course, 
the  peril. 

Although  he  developed  so  rapidly  he  did  not  advance  with- 
out constant  effort  and  application.  In  the  imposing  full-length 
portraits  of  *  Mrs.  Prideaux-Brune  '  and  the  *  Countess  of  Duf- 
ferin  and  Ava,'  he  had  but  partially  mastered  that  fusion  of 
sentiment  and  technique  which  was  later  to  illumine  the  sylvan 
grace  of  *  Lady  Dickson  Poynder  and  her  Daughter.'  In  the 
seated  likeness  of  the  *  Duchess  of  Portland  '  he  had  not  wholly 
caught  the  flexible  total  gradations  of  *  Spot  Red  '  and  *  On  the 
Stairs.'  Among  the  single  figures  there  is  scant  choice  between 
the  wistful,  unconscious  anticipation  of  *  Miss  Kitty,'  in  green 
riding-habit  and  ermine  tippet,  standing  against  the  dark  wall, 
and  the  pensive  reverie  of  *  Lady  Marjorie  Manners  '  instinct 
with  old-world  sentiment  and  modern  suggestion.  Among  the 
larger  canvases  none,  perhaps,  even  to  this  day,  surpasses  the 
well-nigh  faultless  distribution  and  the  subdued  glimmer  of 
grey,  gold,  and  blue  which  distinguish  *  Lady  Carbery  and  her 
Children.'  He  had  early,  it  appears,  learned  that  propriety  of 
grouping  and  arrangement  which  was  the  gift  of  the  older  men 
and  which  has  dignified  so  few  among  the  younger.  Just  as  the 
*  Phil  May,'  which  shows  the  inimitable  draughtsman  in  hunting 
coat,  with  the  habitual  cigar  between  his  fingers,  stands  alone 
among  the  character  studies  so  does  *  The  Flower  Girl '  occupy 

[  237  ] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

a  place  by  herself  among  the  more  decorative  compositions.  Un- 
dertaken in  purely  occasional  moods,  and  as  a  respite  from  the 
strain  of  routine  effort,  some  of  Shannon's  best  work  is  seen  in 
such  canvases  as  the  Romney-like  *  Iris,'  the  oval  *  War,'  which 
Millais  himself  might  have  been  proud  to  sign,  and,  above  all, 
in  *  The  Flower  Girl.'  It  was  certainly  not  a  commission ;  it  was 
something  more  consistent  with  inspiration  which  impelled  him 
to  perpetuate  the  melting  pink,  green,  gold,  and  black  of  this 
last  scene.  As  with  the  others,  the  picture  sprang  instinctively 
into  being.  Reality  furnished  the  elements,  but  it  was  the 
painter  who  selected  and  perfected  nature's  offering.  The  story 
of  *  The  Flower  Girl '  is,  with  slight  variations,  the  story  of  all 
the  subjects  of  this  particular  class.  She  used  to  go  about  the 
streets  of  Eastbourne,  the  actual  flower  girl,  wearing  a  loose, 
dotted  cotton  gown,  and  carrying  on  one  arm  a  basket  of  roses 
and  on  the  other  a  baby.  It  was  only  a  step  from  the  sidewalk 
to  the  garden,  so  she  came  in  and  sat  beneath  the  spreading 
plane  trees  just  as  she  was — ^baby,  basket,  and  big,  feathered 
hat.  Broadly,  sincerely,  and  with  full,  liquid  brush-strokes,  she 
was  painted  during  those  golden  August  afternoons,  not  in  a 
studio,  but  outside,  with  the  sunlight  filtering  through  the  leaves 
on  sitter  and  on  canvas.  It  is  small  wonder  that  when  the  picture 
went  up  to  London  it  proved  the  success  of  the  Academy,  and 
was  purchased  by  the  trustees  of  the  Chantery  Fund  for  the 
Tate  Gallery  just  as  Sargent's  *  Carnation,  Lily,  Lily,  Rose  ' 
had  found  similar  favour  fourteen  years  before. 

The  gifted  painter  who  seems,  more  than  any  of  his  con- 
temporaries, to  wear  with  native  ease  much  that  remains  of  the 
mantle  of  British  art  during  its  age  of  glory,  resides  in  Holland 
Park  Road,  London,  in  a  beautiful  house  adjoining  the  famous 
home  of  Lord  Leighton.  Around  the  house,  which  is  built  in  the 
Dutch  Renaissance  style,  runs  a  high  brick  wall  broken  by  orna- 
mental wrought-iron  gates.    At  the  back  stretches  a  rambling 

[238] 


J.    J.    SHANNON 

garden  brightened  by  clusters  of  roses  and  hollyhocks.  Through- 
out the  interior  are  quantities  of  rare  fmmiture  and  tapestries, 
and  here  and  there  hangs  a  canvas  or  two.  The  studio  is  a  long, 
spacious  room  somewhat  resembling  the  banquet  hall  of  a  Tudor 
mansion,  and  it  is  there  that  Shannon  paints  dowager,  duchess, 
or  his  own  delightful  wife  and  daughter.  Despite  the  daily  pro- 
cession of  distinguished  sitters  it  is  the  members  of  his  own 
household  whom  he  most  enjoys  putting  upon  canvas  either  as 
portraits  or  in  some  less  explicit  vein.  In  certain  of  these  family 
groups  including  *  Tales  from  the  Jungle,'  *  The  Fireside,'  and 
similar  subject-pictures  his  talent  finds  its  most  complex,  and 
perhaps  its  most  appropriate,  setting.  A  little  more  concentra- 
tion, a  little  less  dexterous,  though  in  itself  charming,  dissem- 
ination of  interest,  and  he  can  here  achieve  what  may  prove  to 
be  a  permanent  artistic  expression. 

Shannon  is  a  strict  intuitionalist  in  his  methods.  He  is  a 
rapid,  dashing  workman  using  a  generous,  rich-set  palette  and 
large,  square  brushes.  He  scrutinizes  his  sitter  carefully,  yet 
when  he  once  decides  upon  the  desired  effect  seldom  hesitates 
and  rarely  or  never  makes  a  preliminary  sketch.  Although  he 
did  not  learn  to  paint  imder  the  eye  of  the  facile  Carolus  he  is 
not  a  whit  less  clever  than  the  cleverest  of  the  Paris-taught  men. 
A  confident,  sustained  improvisator,  he  is  sometimes  exacting 
to  the  point  of  caprice.  As  a  rule  expeditious,  it  required  up- 
wards of  sixty  sittings  for  him  to  complete  the  simple  half- 
length  of  *  Mrs.  Magniac'  While  his  art  reflects  qualities  which 
are  the  reverse  of  aggressive,  it  rarely,  at  its  best,  lacks  the 
requisite  elements  of  vigour  and  certainty  of  purpose.  In  gen- 
eral these  canvases  are  a  reproach  to  those  who  exalt  the  su- 
premacy of  technique.  There  is  here  neither  overstatement  nor 
understatement.  One  is  neither  wearied  by  oppressive  fidelity 
nor  tantalized  by  vagueness.  A  singular,  and  in  these  days  rare, 
charm  of  surface  distinguishes  most  of  Shannon's  canvases.    In 

[239] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

essence  tliis  art  is  a  sensitive,  emotional  art,  modem,  though 
looking  backward  to  the  days  when  beauty  was  still  deemed  a 
necessity.  Unlike  so  much  current  work  it  is  neither  Gallic  nor 
Japanese,  but  straightforward  and  Anglo-Saxon — more  a  mat- 
ter of  aspiration  than  of  observation.  It  is  manifestly  lacking 
in  analysis.  Its  very  defects  are  racial,  for  in  its  desire  to  please 
and  to  prettify  it  is  not  above  making  concessions.  This  was 
the  besetting  sin  of  Lawrence.  Unless  he  is  vigilant,  it  may 
prove  the  undoing  of  Shannon.  The  battle  between  the  serious 
and  the  saccharine  has  been  a  long  and  wasting  fight.  It  is 
England's  more  than  Hundred  Years'  artistic  war. 

Although  he  enjoys  a  vogue  second  only  to  the  painter  of 
*  Asher  Wertheimer,'  and  *  Mrs.  Carl  Meyer  and  her  Children,' 
Shannon  continues  wholesome  and  unaffected.  His  views  on 
art  are  temperate  and  traditional.  He  believes  in  little  beside 
the  conquest  of  beauty.  Of  aversions  he  boasts  but  one,  an  utter 
detestation  for  the  photographic  portrait,  the  portrait  which  is 
a  mere  copy  and  not,  in  so  far  as  possible,  a  creation.  While 
he  occasionally  paints  with  chromatic  opulence,  as  in  *  Spring- 
time '  and  ^  The  Flower  Girl '  he  prefers  as  a  rule  the  subdued 
appeal  of  softly  modulated  tones.  Faded  pinks,  pearl-greys, 
and  silver-blacks  are  among  his  favourite  hues.  Like  his  friend 
and  colleague  Melchers,  he  professes  a  keen  admiration  for  the 
work  of  his  contemporaries.  He  believes  that  each  man  who 
strives  honestly  produces  something  different  from  his  fellows, 
and  hence  diplomatically  maintains  that  there  can  be  no  such 
thing  as  rivalry.  For  several  months  during  the  past  few  sea- 
sons Shannon  has  been  living  and  painting  in  New  York,  Boston, 
and  other  American  cities.  Although  he  had  previously  exhib- 
ited but  seldom  away  from  home,  and  while  he  was  properly 
known  only  to  those  who  attended  the  annual  displays  in  Lon- 
don, his  success  in  the  States  has  been  a  repetition  of  his  British 
triumphs.   Just  as  in  England  wealth,  beauty,  and  fashion  have 

[  240  ] 


THE    FLOWER    GIRL 

By  J.  J.  Shannon 

[The  National  Gallery  of  British  Art,  London] 


J.    J.    SHANNON 

flocked  to  his  studio  and  have  been  in  turn  painted  graciously 
and  dexterously  by  the  modest,  genial  man  whose  sole  preoccu- 
pation is  his  art.  The  types  he  encounters  abroad  are  of  course 
akin  to  those  with  which  he  has  so  long  been  familiar.  Yet  while 
American  prelates,  financiers,  and  flowers  of  the  leisured  world 
bear  a  general  family  resemblance  to  their  English  equivalents, 
they  betray  tendencies  which  are  sometimes  widely  different. 
There  is  little  doubt,  however,  that  Shannon  is  sensible  to  this 
divergence,  for  he  is  by  nature  responsively  intuitive.  There  is 
scant  reason  to  fear  that,  wherever  he  might  go,  his  work  would 
suffer  material  change,  for  the  expressiveness  of  his  style  and 
the  delicate  bloom  of  his  colouring  are  permanent,  not  acci- 
dental characteristics.  The  enduring  elements  of  his  art  can 
but  remain  the  same  whether  he  depicts  the  lithe  elegance  of  the 
English  woman  or  the  nervous,  magnetic  splendour  of  her  cousin 
overseas. 

Though  the  art  of  J.  J.  Shannon  is,  in  common  with  so 
much  modern  work,  eclectic  in  its  surface  proclivities,  there  is 
little  question  that  its  main  appeal  descends  direct  from  those 
eighteenth-century  masters  who  painted  the  belles,  beaux,  and 
sober  statesmen  of  Georgian  days.  It  is  to  that  superb  row  of 
'*  Windsor  Beauties  "  in  Hampton  Court,  to  Holland  House, 
the  Wallace  Collection,  the  National  Portrait  Gallery,  and 
various  great  private  houses  that  this  specific  ideal  of  beauty 
can  be  traced.  There  will  of  course  always  be  an  uncertainty 
as  to  just  how  much  the  later  men  owed  to  the  aristocratic,  non- 
chalant painter  of  the  court  of  Charles.  Yet  it  is  evident  that 
this  love  of  fair  countenances  and  artless  piquancy  is  not  a 
foreign,  but  rather  an  innate  possession.  The  best  things  alike 
in  English  art  and  English  verse  appear  to  spring  from  the 
same  clear  source.  The  tender  magic  of  Miranda,  the  romantic 
languor  of  divine  Sacharissa,  the  seductive  revelations  of  Julia, 
and  the  comely  wiles  of  Highland  Mary  each  reflect  something 

[241] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

of  that  radiance  which  lies  at  the  heart  of  natural  things,  that 
unspoiled  happiness  which  is  the  chief  light  of  beauty.  While 
it  is  not  apparent  that  British  painters  or  poets  hold  in  any 
degree  a  monopoly  of  these  qualities,  they  have  surely  crystal- 
lized them  into  visions  typical  of  purely  English  loveliness. 
That  it  should  be  the  mission  of  the  artist  to  increase  and  to 
extend  this  birthright  there  is  small  doubt.  And  yet  no  one 
knows  better  than  he  how  difficult  it  is  to  add  to  this  dream  of 
fair  women — sl  dream  born  not  alone  of  fact  but  of  the  mingled 
fancy  and  illusive  yearning  of  generations. 


[242] 


IGNACIO  ZULOAGA 


IGNACIO    ZULOAGA 

Portrait  of  the  artist  by  Jacques-Emile  Blanche 

[^Courtesy  of  Senor  Zuloaga^ 


IGI^ACIO  ZULOAGA 


THOUGH  her  galleys  no  longer  sweep  the  main  or  her 
soldiers  pitch  their  tents  in  Italy,  in  Flanders,  or  stub- 
bornly hold  in  cheek  the  armies  of  the  First  Consul, 
Spain  is  not,  as  many  fancy,  a  nation  with  a  past  but  no  future. 
Contrary  to  general  opinion,  the  Spain  of  to-day  is  a  vigorous, 
progressive  country,  a  country  which  is  rapidly  advancing  po- 
litically, commercially,  and  artistically.  Resplendent  dreams  of 
world-conquest  have  been  renounced,  the  temporal  power  of  the 
church  is  being  restricted,  and  internal  dissension  has  been  al- 
most wholly  eradicated.  Everywhere  throughout  the  Peninsula 
are  signs  of  regeneration,  and  everywhere  is  the  fundamental 
vitality  of  the  race  asserting  itself.  The  State  is  at  last  shaking 
off  the  lethargy  of  centuries,  is  learning  to  look  within,  not  with- 
out, and  is  cultivating  a  sound,  inspiring  patriotism.  The  Span- 
iard himself  is  changing.  He  has  in  large  measure  ceased  to  be 
the  fatalistic  Turk  of  the  West,  and  Carlist  and  gypsy  are  alike 
making  way  for  the  energetic  man  of  affairs.  The  social  and 
economic  depression  which  followed  the  return  of  the  troops 
from  the  Antilles  and  the  Philippines  is  righting  itself  under 
the  youthful  Alphonso,  and  Spain  is  now  looking  toward  the 
future  with  mingled  hope  and  confidence.  ^*  Resucita,''  the 
closing  note  of  Galdos's  stirring  play,  *  Electra,'  is  the  watch- 
word of  modern  Spain,  and  Riego's  hymn  the  Marseillaise  of 
her  ardent  partisans.  This  coming  to  fresh  life,  this  resur- 
rection, renaissance,  or  whatever  it  may  be  termed,  dates,  of 

[  245  ] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

course,  from  the  Revolution  of  'sixty-eight,  *^  La  Gloriosa,"  as 
it  is  fondly  called,  which  was  logically  followed  by  the  adoption . 
of  the  Constitution  in  'seventy-six.  Since  these  two  recent  and 
memorable  events,  to  which  may  be  added  a  third — that  of  the 
Spanish- American  war — Spain  has  substantially  become  an- 
other nation.  Though  the  last  European  power  to  feel  the 
throb  of  latter-day  progress,  she  is  responding  with  alacrity 
to  that  resistless  simimons.  She  seems  bent  upon  compensat- 
ing for  the  dignified  somnolence  of  the  past  by  taking  firm 
hold  upon  the  issues  of  the  present. 

Both  in  letters  and  in  art  the  same  tendency  is  manifest, 
and,  indeed,  here  achieves  its  highest  expression.  The  sensitive, 
responsive  product  of  material  conditions,  it  is  to  the  writer  and 
the  painter  that  one  must  turn  in  order  to  discover  the  image 
of  that  New  Spain  so  long  sought  across  hostile  frontier  and 
distant  sea  only  to  be  found  at  last  among  the  bare  sierras,  the 
purple  vineyards,  and  the  stern,  proud  hearts  of  the  home-coun- 
try. No  drama  since  Victor  Hugo's  *  Hernani '  has  aroused  a, 
people  to  such  demonstrations  of  disfavour  and  approval  as 
Galdos's  *  Electra,'  which  stands  as  the  symbol  of  advancement- 
and  echoes  the  current  revolt  against  clericalism.  In  Dona 
Emilia  Pardo  Bazan  not  only  the  Spanish  woman,  but  the 
woman  of  the  entire  Continent,  possesses  her  most  liberal  and 
rational  champion.  Yet,  despite  the  leading  literary  figures, 
despite  the  plays  of  Galdos  and  Echegaray,  or  the  novels  of 
Valera  and  Valdes,  it  is  the  younger  Spanish  artists  who  best  • 
reflect  the  spirit  of  the  hour  and  the  vivid  picturesqueness  of 
contemporary  life  and  scene.  It  is  they  who  best  continue,  un- 
der actual  circumstances,  the  noblest  of  all  Spanish  aesthetic 
traditions,  the  tradition  of  II  Greco,  Zurbaran,  Velazquez,  and 
Goya.  Nothing  less  racial  or  less  replete  with  reality  than  the 
canvases  of  SoroUa,  Rusinol,  Zuloaga,  Anglada,  and  Bilbao 
could  possibly  have  brought  Spanish  painting  back  to  the  course 

[  246  ] 


IGNACIO    ZULOAGA 

whence  it  had  aimlessly  meandered  after  the  death  of  Goya. 
The  debased  classicism  of  Jose  de  Madrazo,  the  brilliant,  facile 
bric-a-brac  of  Fortuny,  and  the  theatric  naturalism  of  Pradilla 
and  Alisal  had  successively  vitiated  Peninsular  taste  almost  be- 
yond redemption.  A  great  national  quickening  along  all  lines 
of  activity  was  necessary  before  art  could  regain  her  rightful 
position,  and  it  was  this  movement  which  alone  gave  birth  to 
the  men  of  to-day.  They  are  children  of  **  La  Gloriosa,'*  each  of 
them.  Their  pictures  glow  with  warmth  and  intensity.  Within 
•the  past  decade  they  have  utterly  broken  with  influences  French 
and  Italian.  Names  which  a  few  years  back  loomed  large — 
'Bico,  Zamacois,  Villegas,  Benlliure — ^have  been  rapidly  fading 
before  the  dazzling  outdoor  effulgence  of  Sorolla  and  the  mas- 
terly impersonations  of  Zuloaga.  Inspiration  has  been  found  at 
home,  not  abroad.  The  student  no  longer  deems  it  essential  to 
go  to  Paris  or  to  Rome.  Barcelona,  Valencia,  and  Seville  offer 
more  consistent  and  profitable  opportunities  for  self -develop- 
ment. A  wholesome  nationalism  has  at  last  replaced  an  inter-, 
nationalism  whose  fruits  are  ever  scarce  and  ever  bitter-sweet. 
On  26  July  1870,  the  year  Fortuny 's  *  Spanish  Marriage  ! 
was  first  exhibited  in  Paris,  there  was  bom  in  a  rambling,  six- 
teenth-century house  at  Eibar,  in  the  Basque  province  of  Viz- 
caya,  the  foremost  of  this  redoubtable  band  of  Spanish  nation- 
alists. The  short,  diverse  career  of  Ignacio  Zuloaga  throngs 
with  imusual  incident.  The  Zuloagas  are  an  energetic,  creative 
family,  the  direct  descendants  of  that  ancient  Iberian  stock 
which  early  settled  on  the  southern  slopes  of  the  Pyrenees  and 
has  never  migrated  and  never  been  dislodged.  Placido  Zuloaga, 
the  father  of  Ignacio,  is  widely  known  as  the  rediscoverer  of  the 
art  of  damascene ;  his  uncle,  Daniel  Zuloaga,  is  head  of  the  pot- 
tery revival  at  Segovia,  and  his  ancestors  have  for  generations 
been  celebrated  armourers,  his  great-grandfather  having  been 
director  of  the  Armeria  of  Madrid.    The  atmosphere  into  which 

[  247  ] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

Ignacio  Zuloaga  was  born  was  an  atmosphere  of  vigorous,  con- 
scious, and  skillfully  directed  effort,  tempered  always  by  the 
zealous  conservatism  of  the  past.  As  he  grew  to  boyhood  his 
town  was  rapidly  winning  its  title  as  the  miniature  Toledo  of 
the  North,  and  on  all  sides  could  be  heard  the  hum  of  fly-wheel 
and  the  sound  of  the  forge.  Placido  Zuloaga,  a  typical  Cellini, 
magnetic,  polished,  and  self-willed,  wished  his  son  to  study 
mathematics  and  engineering,  but  the  lad  rebelled,  and  as  a  con- 
sequence, and  probably  also  for  disciplinary  reasons,  the  future 
painter  was  placed  in  the  foundry  to  learn  the  secrets  of  orna- 
mental metal-work.  "With  the  persistence  and  tenacity  of  his 
race  he  laboured  manfully  along  until  able  to  support  himself. 
His  life  was  practically  that  of  a  common  apprentice.  There 
was  little  time  for  pelota  or  other  favourite  games,  and  though 
he  attended  an  occasional  bull-fight,  and  enjoyed  watching  the 
lithe  dignity  of  the  workmen  and  villagers  as  they  passed  along 
the  street  or  paused  by  the  wayside  for  a  friendly  chat,  he  did 
not  think,  in  any  definite  way,  of  placing  on  record  that  varied 
existence  which  teemed  about  him  in  such  supple  and  colourful 
beauty. 

It  is  possible  that  Ignacio  Zuloaga  might  have  remained  at 
Eibar,  and  eventually  have  succeeded  his  father,  had  it  not  been 
for  a  certain  visit  to  Madrid  where  he  saw  for  the  first  time  the 
incomparable  masterpieces  of  the  Prado.  He  forthwith  felt  im- 
pelled to  become  an  artist.  The  arid  intricacies  of  mathematics 
and  the  roar  of  the  furnace  were  forever  obliterated.  He  im- 
mediately bought  himself  the  requisite  materials,  and  day  after 
day  haunted  the  galleries,  finally,  without  previous  instruction, 
producing  an  uncommonly  able  copy  of  one  of  II  Greco's  aris- 
tocratic, black-robed  nobles.  Instinctively  he  had  gone  straight 
to  the  treasure-house  of  Spanish  painting,  stepping  at  once  into 
that  haughty,  reticent  heritage  which  had  so  long  been  ignored. 
From  the  very  beginning  he  identified  himself  with  that  which 

[  248  ] 


DANIEL    ZULOAGA    AND    HIS    DAUGHTERS 
By  Ignacio  Zuloaga 
[The  Luxembourg,  Paris'] 


IGNACIO    ZULOAGA 

was  most  enduring  and  most  significant  in  the  art  of  his  coun- 
try, nor  did  any  subsequent  change  of  scene  cause  him  to  forsake 
his  destined  field.  Yet  notwithstanding  this  unmistakable  proof 
of  ability,  enforced,  as  it  was,  by  the  lad's  constantly  renewed 
pleading,  neither  Placido  Zuloaga  nor  his  wife  had  any  desire 
to  see  their  son  launched  upon  a  career  for  which  they  had  scant 
sympathy  and  which  had  previously  been  ornamented  by  an 
uncle  of  somewhat  Bohemian  propensities.  His  efforts  were 
ridiculed,  and  his  ambitions  frowned  upon.  Still  he  would  not 
renounce  the  beckoning  promises  of  ultimate  attainment,  so  was 
at  last  reluctantly  permitted  to  depart  for  Rome.  He  was  but 
eighteen  at  the  time  and  from  thenceforth  chose  to  live  upon  his  - 
own  resources,  aided  now  and  then  by  the  little  help  a  loving 
mother  could  surreptitiously  send  him.  His  nature  was  forceful 
and  self-reliant.  Though  he  paid  homage  to  certain  dominant 
figures  of  the  past,  yet  what  he  most  loved  was  the  restless  human 
drama  which  continually  unfolded  itself  before  his  gaze.  His 
going  to  Rome  in  the  footsteps  of  Fortuny  and  Villegas,  proved, 
like  SoroUa's  Italian  interlude,  a  blunder,  for  there  was  little 
this  bright-eyed  Montaiiese  could  learn  under  the  shadow  of 
Raphael,  or  of  Michelangelo,  the  stormy,  solitary  Titan  of  the 
Renaissance.  After  floundering  about  for  some  weeks  he  was 
threatened  with  the  fever,  and  at  length  wisely  turned  his  face 
towards  Paris.  For  reasons  less  picturesque  than  economic  he 
settled  first  on  the  heights  of  Montmartre,  in  the  rue  Cortot, 
directly  behind  the  gleaming  basilica  of  Sacre-Coeur.  He  began 
painting  portraits  and  street  views,  none  of  which  he  could  sell,, 
and  lived  in  practical  isolation,  almost  his  only  companions  be- 
ing two  compatriots,  a  sculptor  and  a  painter,  as  ambitious  and 
as  poverty-stricken  as  himself. 

Although  during  the  succeeding  five  years  Zuloaga  experi- 
enced the  most  utter  misery  and  disappointment,  the  sturdy 
independence  of  his  temper  never  relaxed.    He  studied  alone, 

[  249  ] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

refusing  to  cheapen  his  ideals  or  to  scramble  into  recognition  by 
clinging  to  the  coat-tails  of  Bouguereau,  Lefebvre,  or  Gerome. 
During  those  dark,  hopeless  days  which  the  artist  cannot,  even 
now,  recall  without  an  involuntary  shudder,  he  moved  many 
times,  invariably  by  request,  living  by  turns  in  the  rue  Durantin 
and  the  rue  des  Saules,  and  also  frequenting  the  little  Spanish 
colony  in  the  ile  Saint-Louis  of  which  Rusinol  was  the  most 
prominent  member.  On  several  occasions  Zuloaga  collected  in 
his  own  humble  studio,  or  in  one  he  borrowed  for  the  purpose, 
a  number  of  canvases.  These  he  showed  to  his  friends  and  a 
stray  dealer  or  two,  yet  invariably  without  material  result. 
Though  he  failed  to  dispose  of  a  single  picture  the  entire  time, 
it  is  possible  that  this  shabby  and  pathetic  probation  was,  on  the 
whole,  beneficial.  It  proved  at  all  events  that  Paris  was  not 
the  place  for  him,  so  after  a  brief  sojourn  in  London,  where  he 
painted  a  few  portraits,  he  returned  to  Spain,  making  Seville 
his  headquarters.  It  was  there,  imder  the  burning  blue  of  his 
native  sky,  not  amid  the  pearl-grey  mist  which  bathes  Paris, 
that  Zuloaga 's  powers  began  to  expand.  It  was  the  Calle  de 
las  Sierpes  and  the  Paseo  de  las  Delicias,  not  the  Champs- 
Elysees  or  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  which  arrested  his  maturing 
fancy.  The  painter  must  vaguely  have  been  hungering  all  the 
while  for  home,  for  he  soon  saw  afresh  the  colour  and  felt  anew 
the  magic  fascination  of  life  in  each  section  of  the  Andalucian 
capital.  Like  a  true  son  of  Spain  he  devoted  himself  to  the 
interpretation  of  character  in  all  its  primal  flavour  and  accent. 
A  pronoimced  love  of  humanity  animated  even  those  first  some- 
what rigid  and  forbidding  attempts  which  were  so  instinct  with 
quiet  restraint  and  histrionic  veracity.  Retaining  meantime 
his  connections  with  Paris,  he  sent  to  the  Salon  two  portraits,- 
one  of  his  grandmother,  and  one  of  *  The  Dwarf,  Dom  Pedro,'- 
and  the  following  year  exhibited  several  canvases  imder  the 
progressive  though  spasmodic  auspices  of  Le  Bare  de  Boutte- 

[  250  ] 


-OLA,    THE    GITAXA 

•y  Ignacio  Zuloaga 

Possession  of  M.  Henry  Marcel,  Paris] 


IGNACIO    ZULOAGA 

ville.  Thougli  his  work  was  already  individual  in  treatment  and 
conception,  his  success  was  only  a  fraction  more  encouraging 
than  before.  The  French  public  was  not  ready  to  welcome  a 
talent  which  was  soon  to  capture  all  Europe,  nor  were  the 
artist's  years  of  obscure  endeavour  yet  at  an  end.  Moreover, 
the  Spain  which  this  young  Basque  painted  with  such  refined, 
silver-black  severity  was  not  the  Spain  to  which  Parisians,  or 
indeed  Spaniards,  were  accustomed.  It  had  nothing  of  the 
sparkling,  rococo  daintiness  of  Fortimy,  nor  did  it  suggest  the 
chromolithography  of  the  industrious  Jules  Worms.  Ignacio 
Zuloaga  was  bridging  over  an  immediate  and  invertebrate  past. 
•He  was  deliberately  going  back  to  Goya,  and  even  beyond  him. 
He  was  reading  Spanish  types  and  traits  closer  and  deeper  than 
they  had  been  read  for  at  least  a  century. 

Despairing  not  of  his  art,  but  of  his  ability  to  earn  even  a 
meagre  living  by  the  brush,  Zuloaga  was  for  the  time  being 
forced  to  renoimce  painting.  Although  he  might  have  returned 
any  moment  to  that  big,  sixteenth-century  house  with  its  massive 
stairway  and  great,  spacious  rooms,  he  was  too  proud  to  think 
of  anything  in  the  nature  of  a  compromise.  Possessing  a  pas- 
sion for  the  past  and  all  that  appertains  to  bygone  days,  he 
struggled  along  for  awhile  as  a  dealer  in  antiques.  Finding  few- 
clients,  he  was  later  compelled  to  accept  a  modest  clerical  posi-. 
tion  with  a  mining  company,  but  being  inapt  at  figures,  his 
services  were  quickly  dispensed  with,  and  he  again  found  him- 
self adrift.  During  the  two  following  years  he  travelled  from 
place  to  place,  turning  his  hand  to  anything  he  could  find  and 
enriching  his  vision  through  direct  contact  with  humanity  in 
every  quarter  of  the  Peninsula.  He  lived  with  the  muleteers  in 
the  mountains,  with  the  superstitious  fanatics  of  Anso  in  Ara- 
gon,  and  with  the  cutthroats  of  Las  Batuecas  on  the  Portuguese 
frontier.  There  was  literally  nothing  this  resolute,  voluntary 
exile  woidd  not,  and  did  not,  suffer  rather  than  acknowledge 

[251] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

defeat.  Finally,  like  many  another  of  his  courageous,  clean- 
limbed countrymen,  he  entered  the  bull-ring  as  a  pupil  of  the 
famous  Carmona.  The  experience  was  not  without  precedent, 
even  for  an  artist,  the  volcanic  Goya  having  years  before  worked 
his  way  to  the  coast  as  a  picador  in  his  efforts  to  reach  Rome. 
In  spite  of  a  brilliant  beginning  Zuloaga  was  not,  however,  des- 
tined to  duplicate  the  suave  triumphs  of  Cuchares  or  Lagar- 
tijillo.  After  ceremoniously  despatching  eighteen  bulls  the 
young  espada  was  severely  gored  by  the  nineteenth,  and,  in  con- 
sequence, promised  his  distracted  mother  never  to  re-enter  the 
arena.  It  was  while  recuperating  at  the  home  of  his  uncle  in 
ascetic  yet  langorous  Segovia  that  he  returned  to  art  with  re- 
ijewed  enthusiasm,  executing,  among  other  works,  the  memor- 
able triple  portrait  of  *  Daniel  Zuloaga  and  his  Daughters.*  The  • 
picture  proved  the  turning-point  of  his  career.  It  was  easily 
the  feature  of  the  Salon  of  1899  and  was  at  once  purchased  for 
the  Luxembourg,  which  has  since  become  so  partial  to  the 
younger  Spanish  artists.  The  painter-bull-fighter's  wanderings 
were  for  the  time  being  over.  He  settled  down  to  his  life  task 
in  a  mood  of  manful  sincerity  and  with  each  effort  showed  in- 
creasing decision  of  choice  and  distinction  of  style.  Like  For- 
tuny,  who  caught  his  single  gleam  of  truth  and  reality  from  the 
sun-scorched  battle-fields  of  Morocco,  it  required  a  taste  of  that 
passionate,  animated  outdoor  existence  which  his  countrymen 
so  love,  to  vivify  the  art  of  Ignacio  Zuloaga.  The  years  of  wait- 
ing had  not  been  wasted.  Nothing  he  had  witnessed  during  that 
active,  observant  period  was  ever  lost  or  ever  went  for  naught. 
The  entire  cycle  of  popular  life  and  character  was  at  his  fin- 
ger-tips. He  was  at  last  able  to  give  that  intense  impression 
of  things  seen  which  has  ever  been  the  dominant  note  of  Span- 
ish painting. 

It  was  but  natural,  after  having  so  long  been  held  in  abey- 
ance, that  the  artist's  productive  powers  should  have  asserted 

[252] 


IGNACIO    ZULOAGA 

themselves  in  no  halting  manner.  Encouraged  at  last  by  the 
fruits  of  success  he  devoted  himself  with  ample,  masterful 
energy  to  the  transcription  of  those  grave  or  sprightly,  those 
sullen  or  vivacious,  native  types  which  have  since  become  the 
insignia  of  his  work  the  world  over.  Once  launched  upon  its 
course,  his  star  flashed  with  dazzling  rapidity  across  the  firma- 
ment of  Continental  art.  Spain  alone  hesitated  to  recognize  or 
honour  him,  not  the  least  of  his  early  humiliations  being  the 
refusal  of  the  local  jury  to  accept  three  important  canvases  for 
admission  to  the  Spanish  section  at  the  Paris  Exposition  of  1900. 
His  pronounced  anti-academic  propensities,  his  unswerving  in- 
dependence of  attitude,  and  the  fact  that  he  had  never  risked 
formalizing  his  talent  by  tedious  study  at  the  schools  were  points 
which  these  punctilious  gentlemen  were  incapable  of  overlook- 
ing. Barcelona,  with  its  progressive  Catalan  initiative,  was  the 
sole  Spanish  city  to  open  its  gates  to  the  newcomer,  and  for. 
Barcelona  he  has  always  retained  a  special  fondness,  sending, 
indeed,  to  last  season  *s  International  Exposition  no  less  than 
thirty-four  subjects  which  occupied,  in  all,  two  entire  rooms. 
The  check  which  he  had  received  at  the  hands  of  his  compatriots 
proved  only  momentary,  for  his  chagrin  at  not  being  represented 
at  Paris  was  quickly  forgotten  with  the  triumphant  reception 
of  the  rejected  pictures  at  the  Libre  Esthetique  in  Brussels  and 
the  immediate  purchase  of  one  of  them  for  the  Modem  Gallery 
of  the  Belgian  capital.  During  the  past  half-dozen  years  Zu- 
loaga  has  been  a  favourite  of  each  Salon,  as  well  as  a  frequent 
contributor  to  the  annual  displays  in  Berlin,  Dresden,  Munich, 
Vienna,  Venice,  and  London,  where  he  invariably  divides  notice 
with  the  strongest  and  most  advanced  men  of  the  day.  At  the 
Diisseldorf  Exhibition  of  1904  he  was  awarded  the  distinction, 
accorded  only  to  Menzel,  Rodin,  and  himself,  of  being  assigned  a 
special  room,  where  eighteen  representative  works  were  placed 
on  view.    Almost  a  score  of  European  museums  possess  pictures 

[253] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

from  his  tireless  brush,  and  there  is  at  the  present  moment  prac- 
tically no  living  artist  whose  productions  are  more  sought  after, 
or  which  command  higher  figures,  than  those  of  this  painter  of 
eight-and-thirty  who,  a  decade  ago,  was  imable  to  boast  a  single 
patron  or  purchaser. 

There  should  be  no  difficulty  in  accounting  for  the  vogue  of 
Ignacio  Zuloaga.  It  was  an  ethnic  as  well  as  an  aesthetic  thrill 
which  this  young  Spaniard  gave  the  world  of  art,  a  world  sati- 
ated with  studio  abstractions  and  weary  of  academic  conven- 
tions. It  is  to  the  lasting  honour  of  Zuloaga  that  he  has  dedi- 
cated his  powers  to  the  delineation  of  episodes  and  incidents  with 
which  he  is  familiar,  not  to  themes  for  which  he  has  little  sym- 
pathy or  of  which  he  possesses  scant  knowledge.  It  is  because 
he  touches  life  at  first  hand,  and  because  he  has  never  been 
paralyzed  by  routine  that  his  work  reflects  so  abundantly  that 
racial  quality  which  is  its  chief  characteristic,  and,  in  a  sense, 
its  main  reason  for  existence.  Always  regional,  always  topical, 
there  is  about  these  paintings  an  ethnographical  fidelity  which 
is  unmistakable.  Not  only  is  it  inmiediately  apparent  that  these 
subjects  are  Spanish,  it  is  also  possible  to  tell  from  what  province 
they  come  and  to  what  particular  social  stratum  they  belong. 
In  the  hundred-odd  canvases  which  Zuloaga  has  placed  to  his 
credit  can  be  studied  as  nowhere,  save  from  the  originals  them- 
selves, those  deep-rooted  factors  which  have  moulded  into  dis- 
tinct types  the  seductive  Andaluz,  the  aggressive  Basque,  the 
haughty  Castilian,  or  the  sturdy,  half -Moorish  Valencian.  The 
triimaph  of  this  latest  recruit  to  be  admitted  to  the  category 
of  the  masters  recalls  the  triumph  of  Spanish  painting  in  its 
days  of  glory.  His  art,  like  that  of  his  great,  austere  prede- 
cessors, is  an  art  which  is  based  upon  observation,  which  is 
founded  upon  the  realities  of  the  world  external  and  the  world 
internal.  Like  the  solemn,  disdainful  Velazquez,  Zuloaga  cares 
for  little  beside  truth  and  a  compelling  manipulative  mastery. 

[254] 


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IGNACIO    ZULOAGA 

He  never  leaves  the  realm  of  fact  or  of  accurately  specialized 
feeling.  The  faces  one  meets  in  his  huge,  affirmative  pictures 
are  the  faces  known  to  Spanish  art,  as  well  as  to  Spanish  society, 
for  centuries.  Unbroken  and  scarcely  unchanged  throughout 
the  ages  have  come  down  to  us  profiles  that  are  Caesarean,  a 
dusky  beauty  that  is  Saracenic,  and  the  erect  carriage  of  cava- 
liers whose  insolent  grace  was  the  marvel  of  many  a  European 
battle-field.  If  Zuloaga's  men  and  women  suggest  those  of  II 
Greco  or  Velazquez,  it  is  because  he  is  depicting  their  very 
descendants,  not  simply  imitating  the  modes  of  former  days. 
The  grave  seigniors  of  each  Pintor  del  Camara  still  walk  the 
streets  of  Madrid  muffled  in  their  dark  cloaks,  the  pallid  ascetics 
of  Zurbaran  still  live  among  the  Andalucian  moimtains,  and  the 
same  dwarfs  and  beggars  that  look  from  the  walls  of  the  Prado 
also  shuffle  by  in  tattered  swarms  or  sun  themselves  beside 
church  door.  Behind  Zuloaga^s  expressive  silhouettes,  just  as 
behind  *  Philip  ^  and  *  Baltasar  Carlos  '  sweep  the  grey-toned 
landscapes  of  Castile  and  Aragon.  From  first  to  last  Spanish 
» art  has  remained  objective  and  positive.  It  was  for  long  periods 
.ardently  Christian,  but  was  never  enslaved  by  the  sensuous 
afterglow  of  paganism  nor  has  it  since  become  sentimental  or 
fantastic.  Painters  of  other  lands  have  enjoyed  the  widest  lati- 
tude. The  truly  Spanish  artist  has  from  the  beginning  known 
but  two  sources  of  inspiration — Church  and  Country.  Though  • 
there  is  much  in  Zuloaga^s  work  which  goes  further  back — ^back 
to  the  noble  hauteur  of  the  early  manner — ^he  continues  more 
specifically  the  legacy  of  the  belligerent  and  mercurial  Goya. 
The  spirit  of  Goya's  *  Manolas  on  the  Balcony  *  is  the  spirit  of 
the  younger  man's  production.  While  Zuloaga's  sense  of  colour 
is  far  richer  and  more  sonorous,  he  shares  both  the  acidity  and 
the  nervous  alertness  of  the  man  who  was  the  true  parent  of 
present-day  Spanish  painting,  who  was,  in  fact,  the  last  of  old 
masters  and  the  first  of  modems. 

[  255  ] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

Essentially  a  rationalist  in  feeling,  Zuloaga  is  little  concerned 
.■with  sacred  or  pietistic  themes.  He  is  content  to  portray  man 
and  woman  amid  the  incidental  occupations  or  diversions  of 
quotidian  existence.  It  is  thus  to  Velazquez  and  Goya  rather 
than  to  the  fanatical  realism  of  Ribera  or  the  more  chastened 
ecstasy  of  Zurbaran  that  he  reverts  in  the  matter  of  choice  of 
subject.  It  is  the  world  of  to-day  that  he  sets  in  motion  before^ 
the  eyes,  and  to  which  he  adds  his  brilliant  sobriety  of  tint  and 
frankly  effective  taste  for  composition.  Although  there  is  no 
phase  of  contemporary  activity  with  which  he  is  not  conversant, 
it  is  the  purely  exterior  aspects  that  most  attract  him.  A  street 
scene,  a  group  of  women  leaning  from  the  window,  or  a  glimpse 
of  the  crowded  arena,  are  sufficient  to  furnish  him  with  the 
requisite  graphic  essentials.  His  vision  was  never  bounded  by 
the  grim  walls  and  gloomy  corridors  of  the  Alcazar.  All  Spain 
lay  open  to  him,  and  in  his  paintings  all  Spain  finds  its  echo. 
During  those  first  wonderfully  expansive  years  when  he  was 
winning  his  initial  laurels  in  Paris  and  in  Germany,  his  vivacity 
and  fecundity  were  little  short  of  phenomenal.  Each  effort  was 
a  fresh  triumph.  The  success  of  *  Daniel  Zuloaga  and  his 
Daughters,'  with  its  trinity  of  dark-clad  figures  standing  sharp 
against  the  blue  Segovian  sky  and  wide-horizon  plain,  was 
quickly  followed  by  the  fluent  pictorial  elegance  of  the  *  Prome- 
nade after  the  Bull-fight,'  a  canvas  which,  for  versatile  beauty 
of  colouration  and  flexible,  authoritative  handling,  he  has  never 
surpassed.  In  the  old,  lean  days,  which,  in  truth,  were  not  so 
long  since,  when  he  exhibited  in  the  rue  Le  Peletier,  it  was 
**  White  Spain  "  which  he  chiefly  painted.  As  his  eye  became 
more  eager,  and  his  palette  more  opulent,  he  added  tone  after 
tone.  While  affecting  none  of  the  crude  glitter  of  certain  of 
his  colleagues  he  gradually  grew  enamoured  of  deep  reds,  raisin- 
browns,  olive-greens,  orange-yellows,  and  the  cerulean  intensity 
of  cloudless  firmament.    Not  infrequently,  when  Anglada  and 

[256] 


THE    PICADOR,    EL    CORIANO 

By  Ignacio  Zuloaga 
[Courtesy  of  the  artist] 


IGNACIO    ZULOAGA 

he  would  send  their  throbbing  canvases  to  foreign  exhibitions, 
it  became  necessary  to  redecorate  the  room  in  which  they  were 
hung,  or  at  all  events  to  exercise  the  most  scrupulous  care  re- 
specting their  entourage.  Something  in  the  nature  of  a  subtle 
contempt  for  less  lavishly  endowed  talents  seems  always  to  linger 
about  these  pictures  which,  one  and  all,  pulsate  with  the  torrid 
blood  of  the  Peninsula.  Though  their  schemes  are  often  sober 
and  contained,  even  black  assumes  with  these  men,  as  it  does 
with  Velazquez,  the  properties  of  a  colour.  With  rare  excep- 
tions they  do  not  employ  the  broken  tones  of  their  French  con- 
temporaries. While  the  more  Parisian  Anglada  at  times  recalls - 
Besnard,  both  SoroUa  and  Zuloaga  prefer  full  brushes  and  a 
broad,  sweeping  stroke. 

It  is  not  alone  society  on  dress  parade  which  Zuloaga  has 
portrayed.  He  has  also  descended  into  that  dark  and  semi- 
savage  underworld  of  love,  passion,  and  hatred  which  seethes 
about  the  roots  of  the  Spanish  tree  of  life.  He  knows  intimately 
the  majas  and  gitanas  of  the  SeviUian  Triana,  and  naturally 
they,  too,  often  figure  in  his  work  with  their  glistening,  car- 
nivorous teeth,  their  avid  glances,  and  insinuating  gait.  Here 
also,  has  he  extended  the  scope  of  art,  and  added,  at  least  pic- 
torially,  to  the  varied  treasury  of  human  emotion.  The  infec- 
tious and  somewhat  ingenuous  coquetry  of  *  Lola  '  blends  into 
a  more  deliberate  and  insistent  artifice  with  the  painted  and 
pencilled  Carmens  of  the  *  Calle  del  Amor.'  The  expectant 
charm  of  *  Consuelo's  '  pose  becomes  alive  with  rhjrthmic,  fre- 
netic fire  in  *  The  Spanish  Dancers.'  A  thick  coating  of  rice 
powder  and  a  saffron-hued  mantilla  are  the  badges  of  these 
wilful,  unredeemed  creatures  who  ever  lie  in  wait  for  the  weak 
or  the  unwary  yet  who  never  found  their  true  interpreter  imtil 
Zuloaga  rendered  them  in  all  their  flaunting,  instinctive  primity. 
Although  women  predominate,  it  is  not  woman  alone  that  the 
painter  depicts,  for  numerous  canvases  have  been  dedicated  to 

[257] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

the  most  obviously  masculine  creations  Spain  has  thus  far  pro- 
duced— ^the  picador,  the  matador,  and  the  torero.  For  blunt,- 
ruthless  power  of  individualization  the  scarred,  leathery  coun- 
tenance of  *  El  Coriano  ^  occupies  a  place  by  itself  in  this  gallery 
of  corrida  heroes,  nor  has  the  artist  since  excelled  the  stolid 
standing  likeness  of  *  El  Bunolero,'  about  whom  clings  the 
mingled  dust  and  blood  of  countless  bull-ring  combats.  Still 
another  territory  has  been  conquered  by  this  ready  pioneer  of 
tiie  brush.  It  is  the  shabby,  shifting  kingdom  of  laconic  dwarfs, 
ragged  mendicants,  bronzed  water-carriers,  or  itinerate  fruit- 
venders,  which  forms  such  an  integral  portion  of  Spanish  life. 
Needless  to  add,  he  is  as  much  at  home  in  the  province  of  the 
picaresque  as  anywhere  else,  since  it  is  a  world  which  has  been 
peculiarly  dear  to  Peninsular  author  and  artist  since  the  days  of 
Hurtado  de  Mendoza  and  Murillo.  For  anything  comparable 
to  *  Segovians  Drinking  *  or  the  sun-tanned  and  doubtless  sala- 
cious interlocutor  in  *  A  Passing  Sally  '  it  is,  however,  necessary 
to  go  back  to  *  The  Topers  '  of  the  Prado.  The  softly  affable 
Murillo  never  had  at  his  command  such  a  fund  of  sardonic 
strength  or  such  stark  brutality  of  statement.  In  the  treatment 
of  single  figure,  or  of  larger  composition,  in  his  likeness  of  the 
poet,  *  Don  Miguel,'  the  dancer,  *  Lolita,'  or  in  the  *  Bull-fight 
in  my  Village,'  Zuloaga,  during  those  early  years,  displayed  the 
same  fullness  of  vision  and  completeness  of  suggestion.  Char- 
acteristic strips  of  landscape  always  stretched  away  from  each 
group  giving  that  sense  of  receding  space  which  is  one  of  the> 
special  charms  of  these  pictures.  Each  and  all,  they  were  su- 
premely effective  in  placing  and  arrangement.  While  the 
painter  made  no  undue  sacrifices  to  attain  an  immediate,  in- 
stantaneous appeal,  he  seemed  to  possess,  in  a  superlative  de- 
-gree,  the  scenic  gift. 

Though  Zuloaga  lives  nominally  at  Eibar,  or  in  Paris,  he  is 
in  reality  an  insatiate  wanderer.    He  owns  no  regular  studio, 

'[258] 


IGNACIO    ZULOAGA 

but  carries  about  with  him  over  the  rugged  face  of  Spain 
brushes,  colours  and  canvas,  selecting  whatever  fits  his  mood  or 
his  feeling  for  the  picturesque.  He  will  hastily  install  an  assort- 
ment of  local  models  in  a  room  in  his  hotel,  in  sunlit  courtyard, 
or  on  sloping  sierra-side  open  to  the  sky  and  the  four  winds  of 
heaven.  It  is  unknown,  and  almost  inaccessible  Spain  that  he  - 
constantly  seeks,  and  the  most  savage  and  solitary  comers  of 
the  kingdom  are  his  familiar  haimts.  His  experiences  have  been 
innumerable,  and  he  does  not  hesitate  to  recount  them  with  a 
fund  of  illuminative  detail.  In  the  course  of  these  pilgrimages 
he  has  often  been  forced  to  subsist  upon  roots,  like  the  poorest 
peasant,  and  has  at  times  encountered  the  most  irredeemable 
ignorance  and  suspicion.  A  few  years  since,  in  Salamanca,  he 
was  accused,  with  considerably  less  authority  than  was  the 
irascible  Herrera  in  his  day,  of  being  a  counterfeiter,  and  not 
long  afterward,  while  alone  in  his  automobile,  he  was  mistaken 
for  the  devil  and  knocked  insensible  by  a  vicious  and  well-di- 
rected hail  of  missiles.  It  was  his  somewhat  mixed  pleasure  to 
discover,  on  a  certain  memorable  occasion,  that  even  in  the  hid- 
den recesses  of  his  beloved  country  the  higher  claims  of  art  are 
treated  seriously.  When  he  was  one  day  disposing  his  im- 
promptu models  for  a  large  and  important  composition  the 
members  of  one  group  did  not  fancy  the  way  those  for  another 
portion  of  the  scheme  were  posing,  and  on  expressing  their  dis- 
approval, a  conflict  was  precipitated  with  the  result  that  not 
enough  able-bodied  participants  were  left  with  which  to  com- 
plete the  picture.  Nor  was  it  without  a  touch  of  discretionary 
agility  that  the  unwitting  cause  of  the  melee  rolled  up  his  big, 
wet  canvas  and  departed  for  more  pacific  surroundings.  Of  late 
these  expeditions  have  increased,  rather  than  diminished,  in 
number  and  in  frequency.  Almost  every  summer  Zuloaga 
spends  several  weeks  on  tour,  often  accompanied  by  his  greatest 
friend  and  admirer,  Auguste  Rodin,  who  is  unfailingly  enthusi- 

[2591 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

astic  over  the  plastic  grace  and  sculpturesque  mien  of  even  the 
sorriest  wayfarer  who,  as  a  rule,  comports  himself  like  a  soldier 
of  Spinola  or,  indeed,  some  far  off  Arab  tribesman. 

Next  to  painting,  Zuloaga  prefers  the  eager  joys  and  unex- 
pected triumphs  of  the  antiquary  and  the  collector,  the  rewards 
of  recent  years  having  enabled  him  to  accumulate  a  remarkable 
array  of  Spanish  masters  numbering  some  three  hundred  in  all. 
With  his  knowledge  of  art  both  classic  and  contemporary,  and 
his  unequalled  opportimities,  he  has  managed  to  acquire  for  a 
mere  pittance  several  of  the  foremost  existing  examples  of  II 
Greco  and  Goya,  the  two  men  in  which  his  gallery  is  richest. 
In  order  properly  to  house  his  purchases  he  has  built  himself  a 
miniature  museum  in  the  garden  adjoining  the  family  home  at 
Eibar,  and  now,  as  always,  the  twin  sources  of  his  inspiration 
remain  the  simple  dignity  of  the  ancient  world  and  the  shifting 
pageant  of  modem  life.  With  each  year,  almost,  his  field 
changes.  He  has  latterly  forsaken  the  bespangled  attractions 
of  Seville's  Macarena,  and  at  present  prefers  the  vineyards  of 
La  Rioja  where  he  is  engaged  in  painting  the  local  saturnalia. 
Still  another  departure  is  a  poignant,  Dantesque  conception  en- 
titled *  The  Penitents,'  which  is  full  of  dramatic,  sanguinary 
frenzy.  Isolated  figures  of  trenchant  power  and  intensity  such 
as  *  The  Old  Hermit '  and  *  The  Image  Seller  '  add  further  di- 
versity to  a  production  which  shows  but  slight  diminution  either 
in  range  or  in  quality.  There  are,  nevertheless,  a  few  dissent- 
ing voices  among  the  former  devotees  of  Zuloaga 's  work.  It  is 
hinted  that  he  has  exhausted  his  originality  and  piquancy,  that 
his  more  recent  types  seem  pattern-made  and  lacking  in  verve 
and  spontaneity.  In  a  limited  degree  such  strictures  are  not 
without  foundation,  nor,  considering  certain  factors  in  his 
progress  and  development,  could  it  hardly  be  otherwise.  He 
has  seen  everything  and  remembers  accurately  everything  he 
has  seen.    The  material  for  his  paintings  circles  about  him  in  a 

[260] 


IGNACIO    ZULOAGA 

contimious  series  of  picturesque  and  variegated  panoramas. 
The  temptation  to  arrest  the  revolutions  of  this  moving  picture 
apparatus  and  to  repeat  given  gestures,  attitudes,  groups,  and 
scenes  has  not  always  been  resisted.  Touches  of  the  arbitrary 
and  the  automatic  are  here  and  there  visible.  In  more  than  one 
instance  the  human  equation  has  been  overemphasized,  and  now 
and  then,  as  for  example  in  *  Lassitude,'  the  scarlet  trail  of  the 
serpent  spreads  itself  across  an  art  never,  in  fact,  far  removed 
from  the  bypaths  of  sensuality. 

Granting  the  force  of  his  handling  and  his  manifest  faculty 
for  characterization  it  is  none  the  less  evident  that  Zuloaga  lacks 
the  splendid,  salubrious  vitality  of  his  Valencian  colleague  So- 
rolla,  whose  spirit  is  ever  refreshed  by  the  brisk  sea  wind  and 
the  inexhaustible  fertility  of  nature.  With  no  such  counter- 
poise there  is  a  possibility  of  his  entering  and  remaining  inside 
that  hot  prison-house  of  passion  at  the  doors  of  which  he  now 
stands.  And,  moreover,  the  sudden  and  widespread  vogue 
which  he  has  enjoyed  has  perhaps  bred  within  him  a  certain  lack 
of  vigilance,  a  suspicion  of  that  easeful  arrogance  and  superior- 
ity which  have  more  than  once  proved  disastrous  to  the  race  to 
which  he  belongs.  Alike  in  its  virtues  and  its  defects,  there  are 
numerous  hereditary  affinities  between  the  art  of  Zuloaga  and 
the  art  of  his  great  forebears  of  the  brush,  just  as  there  are 
between  the  Spain  of  yesterday  and  the  Spain  of  to-day.  It 
would  hence  be  manifestly  absurd  to  expect  a  man  of  Zuloaga  *s 
birth  and  training  to  be  other  than  he  is,  or  to  paint  other  than 
he  has  painted.  However  insistent  and  emphatic  it  may  seem 
to  us,  the  ardent  pictorialism  of  his  manner  is  essentially  true 
to  Peninsular  life  and  traditions.  Those  identical  qualities 
which  appear  unreal  to  foreign  eyes,  are  in  fact  reality  of  the 
most  pronounced  type;  and  herein  lies  the  strength  of  an  art 
the  graphic  verity  of  which,  though  at  times  somewhat  formal 
and  summary,  must  nevertheless  remain  unquestioned.    And, 

[261] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 

after  all,  Zuloaga  has  amply  earned  the  right  to  depict  his 
country  and  his  countrymen  as  he  may  see  fit.  He  is  a  Span- 
iard through  and  through.  He  has  read  Spanish  character  in 
its  most  secret  and  intimate  phases,  and  no  one  knows  better 
than  he  that  behind  the  laugh  of  cigarrera  and  the  defiant 
bearing  of  torero  lurks  a  latent  diabolism  which  has  not  yet 
been  subdued.  Nor  does  anyone  realize  more  clearly  that  the 
majority  of  his  own  virile,  sultry  figures  are  stencilled  against 
a  backgroimd  which  still  remains  sinister  and  inscrutable. 


[262] 


INDEX  TO  ARTISTS 


INDEX  TO   ARTISTS 


Alexander,  John  W.,  230 
Alisal,  Jose  Casado  del,  247 
Allegrain,  Christophe-Gabriel,  10 
Allegri,  Antonio  (Correggio),  212 
Alma-Tadema,  Laurens,  218 
Anglada  y  Camarosa,  Hermen,  246, 
256,  257 

Barbarelli,   Giorgio    (Giorgione),  50, 

123 
Bardi,  Donato  di  Betto  (Donatello), 

194 
Barocci,  Federigo,  7 
Bartels,  Hans  von,  214 
Bastien-Lepage,  Jules,  176,  184,  219 
Baud-Bovy,  Auguste,  200 
Beauvarlet,  Jacques-Francois,  20 
Begas,  Reinhold,  65,  69,  123 
Behnes,  William,  49 
Benlliure  y  Gil,  Jose,  247 
Benois,  Alexander,  149 
Benson,  Frank  W.,  213 
Berrettini,  Pietro  (da  Cortona),  7 
Besnard,  Paul-Albert,  150,  167,  213, 

257 
Bilbao,  Gonzalo,  246 
Bistolfi,  Leonardo,  207 
Blake,  William,  38 
Blanche,  Jacques-Emile,  186 
Bocklin,  Arnold,  61-77,  119,  123 
Bonington,  Richard  Parkes,  175 


Bonnat,  Leon-Joseph-Florentin,  119 

Bonvin,  Frangois,  100 

Borch,  Gerard  ter,  the  Younger,  13 

Borovikovsky,  V.  L.,  136 

Boucher,  Frangois,  4,  6,  7,  21,  230 

Bouguereau,  Adolphe-William,  36, 
250 

Boulanger,  Gustave-Rodolphe- Clar- 
ence, 176,  215 

Boulle,  Andre-Charles,  12 

Bracquemond,  Felix,  100 

Braz,  J.  E.,  148 

Bree,  Matthias  Ignatius  Van,  29,  31 

Brown,  Ford  Madox,  81,  82 

Briick,  Paul,  63 

Brulov,  C.  P.,  137,  149 

Bruni,  F.  A.,  137 

Bugatti,  Carlo,  195 

Buonarroti,  Miehelagnolo  (Michel- 
angelo), 7,  26,  29,  31,  37,  55,  92, 
177,  249 


Calame,  Alexandre,  199 
Cals,  Adolphe-Felix,  81 
Cameron,  D.  Y.,  178 
Canale,  Antonio  (Canaletto),  105 
Capronnier,  J.  B.,  86 
Carolus-Duran,  Charles-Auguste- 
Emile,  157,  158,  159,  160,  239 
Carpeaux,  Jean-Baptiste,  215 
Carriere,  Eugene,  150,  222 
[  265  ] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 


Cassatt,  Mary,  213  Ferragutti,  Adolfo,  198 

CeUini,  Benvenuto,  12,  248  Fetodov,  P.  A.,  137 

Chardin,  Jean-Baptiste-Simeon,  6,  13,     Feuerbach,  Anselm,  62,  65 


21 
Clone,  Andrea  di  (Orcagna),  50 
Claus,  Emile,  213 
Clausen,  George,  235 
Constable,  John,  175 
Cornelius,  Peter  von,  62 
Corot,  Jean-Baptiste-Camille,  67 


Filipepi,  Alessandro  di  Mariano  (Bot- 
ticelli), 161,230 

Fortuny  y  Carbo,  Mariano  Jose  Ma- 
ria Bernado,  247,  249,  252 

Fragonard,  Alexandre-Evariste,  12, 
18 

Fragonard,  Jean-Honore,  3-22,  230 


Courbet,  Gustave,  61,  81,  82,  99,  103,     Fraikin,  Charles-Auguste,  84 


Francesca,   Piero   della    (dei'   Fran- 

ceschi),  161 
FrMeric,  Leon,  83 

Gainsborough,  Thomas,  160,  230,  231 
Gebhardt,  Karl  Franz  Eduard  von, 

215 
Gellee,  Claude  (Lorrain),  67 
Gerard,  Henri,  12 


107,  149,  211,  212 
Coysevox,  Antoine,  3 
Cozette,  Pierre-FrauQois,  10 
Cremona,  Tranquillo,  198 

Dannat,  William  T.,  221 

David,  Jacques-Louis,  12,  15,  18,  19, 

21,  25,  136 

Decamps,  Alexandre-Gabriel,  34 

Degas,  Hilaire-Germain-Edgard,  165,     G^^ard,  Marguerite,  12,  14,  18,  19 

213  Gericault,    Jean -Louis -Andre -Theo- 

Delacroix,  Ferdinand- Victor-Eugene,         ^^^.^  gj^ 

34,  38,  62  Gerome,  Jean-Leon,  250 

Delaroche,  Hippolyte  (Paul),  62  Giacometti,  Giovanni,  206 

Dill,  Ludwig,  175  Qjotto  di  Bondone,  50 

Doyen,  Gabriel-Frangois,  9  Girardon,  Frangois,  3 

Dreber,  Heinrich  Franz-  (Karl  Hein-     (jieyre,  Marc-Charles-Gabriel,  103 

rich-Dreber) ,  65 
Drouais,  Frangois-Hubert,  10 
Diirer,  Albrecht,  225 
Dyck,  Anthonie  van,  4,  120,  163,  225, 

229,  231 


Edelfeldt,  Albert,  221 
Etex,  Antoine,  215 

Fantin-Latour,  Ignace-Henri-Jean- 
Th6odore,  100,  103,  106,  109 


Golovin,  A.  J.,  151 

Gouthiere,  Pierre-Joseph-D6sire,  10 

Goya   y    Lucientes,    Francisco    Jose, 

165,  246,  251,  252,  255,  256,  260 
Grabar,  Igor,  149 
Grafle,  Albert,  122 
Greiner,  Otto,  63 
Greuze,  Jean-Baptiste,  10,  12 
Groux,  Charles  de,  33,  83,  85 
Groux,  Henry  de,  38 
[266] 


INDEX    TO    ARTISTS 


Gnibicy  de  Dragon,  Yittore,  195, 198, 

204 
Guthrie,  Sir  James,  177,  185 
Gysis,  Nikolas,  76 

Hall,  Peter  Adolf,  12,  15 

Halle,  Noel,  10 

Hals,  Frans,  the  Elder,  167,  177,  224 

Hassam,  Childe,  213 

Haydon,  Benjamin  Robert,  38 

Helleu,  Paul-Cesar,  186 

Henry,  George,  178,  179 

Herrera,  Francisco  de,  the  Elder,  259 

Herreyns,  Willem  Jacob,  29 

Herrmann,  Hans,  215 

Hildebrand,  Theodor,  65 

Hiroshige,  110 

Hitchcock,  George,  213 

Hobbema,  Meindert,  13,  217 

Hoelzel,  Adolf,  175 

Hofner,  Johann  Baptist,  121 

Holbein,  Hans,  the  Younger,  64,  75, 

128,  156,  224 
Hoppner,  John,  230 
Homel,  Edward  A.,  188 

larochenko,  N.  A.,  138,  141 

Ingres,  Jean-Auguste-Dominique,  62 

Israels,  Jozef,  218 

Ivanov,  A.  A.,  137 

Ivanov,  M.  F.,  148 

Jeanron,  Philippe-Auguste,  81 
Juon,  Constantin,  149 

Kampf,  Arthur,  215 

Kaulbach,  Friedrieh  August  von,  129 

Kaulbach,  Wilhelm  von,  62 


Kempeneer,  Pieter  de   (Pedro  Cam- 

pana),  86 
Khnopff,  Fernand,  38 
Kiprensky,  0.  A.,  136 
Klinger,  Max,  63 
KoUer,  Rudolf,  65 
Korovin,  C.  A.,  149 
Kramskoy,  I.  N.,  138,  140,  141 

Laermans,  Eugene,  38,  83 

La  Gandara,  Antonio  de,  186 

Lancret,  Nicolas,  3 

Landseer,  Sir  Edwin  Henry,  233 

Landsinger,  Sigmund,  63 

Lasius,  Otto,  72 

Launay,  Nicolas  de,  9,  12,  20 

Lavery,  'John,  173-188,  236 

Lawrence,  Sir  Thomas,  231,  240 

L^bedev,  M.  J.,  138 

Le  Brun,  Charles,  3 

Lecomte,  Felix,  10 

Ledoux,  Claude-Nicolas,  10,  11 

Lefebvre,  Jules-Joseph,  176,  215,  250 

Legros,  Alphonse,  100 

Leibl,  Wilhelm,  214,  219 

Leighton,  Frederic,  Baron  of  Stret- 

ton,  178,  238 
Lenbach,  Franz  von,  69,  117-132,  147 
Le  Notre,  Andre,  3 
Lepaute,  Jean- Andre,  10 
Lesueur,  Pierre,  19 
Levitan,  I.  I.,  149 
Levitzky,  D.  G.,  136 
Lieb,   Michael    (Munkacsy   Mihaly), 

72,  219,  221 
Liebermann,  Max,  61,  214,  218 
Lindsay,  Sir  Coutts,  179 
Linton,  Sir  James  D.,  179 


[267] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 


Loo,  Charles- Andre  Van  (Carle),  7, 

10 
Lotto,  Lorenzo,  119 

Madrazo,  Jose  de,  247 

Makart,  Hans,  72,  150 

Makovsky,  C.  G.,  147 

Maliavin,  P.  A.,  148,  149 

Malutin,  S.  B.,  151 

Manet,  Edouard,  100,  103,  149,  159, 

181,  212,  221 
Mantegna,  Andrea,  195 
May,  Phil,  237 
Meer,  Johannes  van  der,  van  Delft 

(Vermeer),  13 
Mehoffer,  Joseph,  119 
Melehers,  Julius  Gari,  176,  211-225, 

236,  240 
Melville,  Arthur,  188 
Menpes,  Mortimer,  235 
Menzel,  Adolph  Friedrich  Erdmann 

von,  61,  82,  129,  139,  149,  253 
Meunier,  Constantin,  33,  81-95 
Meunier,  Jean-Baptiste,  84 
Meunier,  Karl,  89 
Michel,    Claude-FrauQois    (Clodion), 

92 
Millais,  Sir  John  Everett,  238 
Millet,  Jean-Frangois,  81,  82,  93,  198, 

218 
Minne,  George,  83 
Monet,   Claude-Jean,   150,   166,   195, 

212,  213 
Monticelli,  Adolphe,  173 
Moore,  Albert,  106 
Moreau,  Gustave,  61,  62 
Morizot,  Berthe  (Mme.  Eugene  Ma- 
net), 21 


Moroni,  Giovanni  Battista,  119 
Murillo,  Bartolome  Esteban,  258 

Natoire,  Charles-Joseph,  7 
Neff,  T.  A.,  137 
Nittis,  Giuseppe  de,  221 

Opie,  John,  231 

Orlovsky,  A.  J.,  137 

Overbeck,  Johann  Friedrich,  62 

Pajou,  Augustin,  10 

Parsons,  Alfred,  236 

Pasternak,  L.  J.,  137 

Pater,  Jean-Baptiste-Joseph,  3 

Perov,  V.  G.,  137,  141 

Phidias,  46 

PidoU,  Karl  von,  63 

Piloty,   Carl  Theodor  von,   62,  122, 

150 
Pissarro,  Lucien-Camille,  212,  213 
Poussin,  Nicolas,  38,  67, 136 
Poynter,  Sir  Edward  John,  235,  236 
Pradilla,  Francisco,  247 
Preller,  Friedrich,  the  Elder,  69 
Previati,  Gaetano,  198 
Prinsep,  Valentine  Cameron   (Val), 

225 
Puvis    de    Chavannes,    Pierre-Cecile, 

61,  216,  221,  222 

Reni,  Guido,  136 
Renoir,  Firmin-Auguste,  212,  213 
Repin,  Ilya  Efimovitch,  135-152 
Reynolds,  Sir  Joshua,  230,  231 
Ribera,  Jusepe  de  (Lo  Spagnoletto) , 

145,  256 
Rico,  Martin,  247 
Rijn,  Rembrandt  Harmensz.  van,  102, 

119,  122,  217,  229 


[268] 


INDEX    TO    ARTISTS 


Robert,  Hubert,  7,  12,  15 

Robert,  Leopold-Louis,  31 

Robinet,  Paul-Gustave,  200 

Robusti,  Jacopo  (Tintoretto),  50 

Roche,  Alexander,  176,  177,  178,  183 

Rochegrosse,  Georges,  215 

Rodin,    Frangois-Auguste,    179,    253, 

259 
Romney,  George,  230,  231 
Rops,  Felicien,  38 
Rossetti,  Gabriel  Charles  Dante,  106, 

111,  232 
Rubens,  Petrus  Paulus,  13,  21,  26,  29, 

31,  32,  33,  34,  37,  39,  71,  95,  120, 

122,  123,  167,  177,  231 
Ruisdael,  Jacob  Isaaeksz.  van,  13,  217 
Rusinol,  Santiago,  246,  250 


Serov,  V.  A.,  137,  148,  149 
Shannon,   James   Jebusa,    179,    225, 

229-242 
ShishMn,  I.,  138 
Sisley,  Alfred,  212,  213 
Solimena,  Francesco,  7 
Somoff,  Constantin,  149 
Sorolla  y  Bastida,  Joaquin,  213,  246, 

247,  249,  257,  261 
Stauffer-Bem,  72 
Sternberg,  V.  J.,  137 
Stieler,  Josef  Karl,  125 
Stuck,  Franz  von,  63,  76 

Tarbell,  Edmund  C,  213 
Theotocopuli,  Domenico    (II  Greco), 

246,  248,  255,  260 
Thoma,  Hans,  63 
Thorvaldsen,  Bertel,  31 
Tiepolo,  Giovanni  Battista,  7,  21 
Topffer,  J.  Rudolf,  199 
Turner,  Joseph  Mallord  William,  105 


Saint-Aubin,  Gabriel  de,  7 
Saint-Non,   Jean-Claude-Richard   de, 

7,  12,  18 
Samberger,  Leo,  131 
Sandreuter,  Hans,  63 
Santi,  Raffaello  (Raphael),  4,  7,  35, 

37,  95,  128,  136,  249 
Sargent,  John  Singer,  119,  155-169, 

179,  218,  229,  230,  232,  236,  238 
Savrassov,  A.  K.,  138 
Schadow,  Friedrich  Wilhelm  von,  62     Vasse,  Louis-Claude,  10 


Uhde,  Fritz  von,  214,  218,  219 
Unger,  Hans,  63 
Urban,  Hermann,  63 


Schirmer,  Johann  Wilhelm,  65 

Schmarov,  P.  D.,  148 

Schnorr  von  Carolsfeld,  Julius,  62 

Schwind,  Moritz  von,  63 

Segantini,    Giovanni,    191-207,    213, 

218 
Segantini,  Gottardo,  206,  207 
Segantini,  Mario,  206,  207 
Seidl,  Gabriel  von,  124 


Vecelli,  Tiziano  (Titian),  50,  120, 
122,  123,  131,  156,  162,  177 

Velazquez,  Diego  Rodriguez  de  Silva 
y,  106,  109, 123,  128,  159,  160,  167, 
177,  181,  183,  212,  229,  232,  246, 
254,  255,  256,  257 

Venezianov,  A.  G.,  137 

Verestchagin,  V.  V,,  138 

Verheyden,  Isidore,  95 
[269] 


MODERN    ARTISTS 


Vemet,  Antoine-Charles-Horace 

(Carle),  12 
Vemet,  Claude-Joseph,  10,  12 
Vien,  Joseph-Marie,  11 
Villegas,  Jose  de,  247,  249 
Vinci,  Leonardo  da,  156,  195 
Vogel,  Hugo,  215 
Vrubel,  M.  A.,  151 

Walton,  Edward  Arthur,  177,  178 
Wappers,  Gustaaf,  Baron,  33 
"Watteau,  Jean-Antoine,  3,  4,  21 
"Watts,  George  Frederick,  43-58,  61, 

62,  163,  225,  232 
Welti,  Albert,  63 


Whistler,  James  Abbott  McNeill,  99- 
113,  157,  169,  174,  179,  180,  181, 
183,  230,  235 

Wiertz,  Antoine,  25-40 

Winterhalter,  Franz  Xaver,  122 

Worms,  Jules,  251 


Zamaeois,  Edoardo,  247 
Zorn,  Anders  L.,  167 
Ziigel,  Heinrich,  150 
Zuloaga,  Daniel,  247,  252,  256 
Zuloaga,  Ignaeio,  245-262 
Zuloaga,  Placido,  247,  248,  249 
Zurbaran,  Francisco  de,  246,  255,  256 


[270] 


VJ) 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 
Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


m  'ft  1311  §4 


RETURNED  TO 


MAR  1  0  i97'^: 


LOAN    AHC 


APR     4  1979 


REC.CIR.OCT  27  76 


LD21A-50m-2,'71 
(P2001sl0)476 — A-32 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


""^A,   .^ 


%.,  .# 


>^^  X 


